


Bendy and the Studio of Crazy People

by Pangolin_404



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24572389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangolin_404/pseuds/Pangolin_404
Summary: Random tales from the studio. Could be shippy, could be platonic. Could be silly, could be scary! Warnings will be placed in front of each chapter if/when needed.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 87





	1. Hats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Fain enjoys his hat collection.

Jack had been making a gurgling sound that must've been an attempt at humming. He 'hummed' sometimes. He appeared in and out of thick puddles, always near drawers and once giving Sammy a heart attack by coming up alarmingly close during a prayer. He startled plenty of creatures during his sudden visits, and nearly got hit sometimes, but for the most part, he was a friend to all.

He traveled remarkably short distances for the amount of popping in and out he did. He couldn't really crawl or walk, it seemed. Or he just didn't want to.

He popped up near a desk in a locked office and looked around, grumbling softly. It could've been speech, or just nonsensical searcher noises. After assuring he was alone, he opened the drawers and started sifting through them carefully. He pulled out a hat.

Except it wasn't the bowler hat he usually wore. It was a straw hat, broad-rimmed, floppy, and, frankly, unruly. He removed the hat he'd been wearing, a paper hat that had become a trend among the lost ones. They'd not stopped making them ever since they figured out how to put the old studio paper to use. All sorts of variants were beginning to come into light, borderline paper mache. Jack had been happy to add to his ever-growing collection.

He swapped the hats, tucking the paper one safely in the drawer and putting on the straw hat. He had stashes all over the studio, and made sure all of his hats were in a safe place where he could access them easily.

Jack smiled and leaned over the old chair near the desk and used it as a pillow, simply enjoying the moment.

He liked hunting for hats around the studio. He had miner helmets, top hats, sunhats, fedoras, even bows that he could stick to himself. He found he liked putting bows on things, including others who would stay still for long enough to become inviting mannequins. It brightened the place up, in his opinion.

He basked with his hat for what only felt like a few minutes, but very well could've been hours. Just smiling tiredly, not thinking about the passing time, resting his head on his arms. The hat obscured his vision, but he didn't mind. It was worth the happiness it gave him. Calm happiness like this was rare, and he treasured it.

The places he visited most were often abuzz with movement, whether it be lost ones building up their village, searchers playing with Bertrum, Sammy playing a ukulele, or the nice Alice lookalike singing, the studio was always alight with life. Some stillness was nice, though. Movement made Jack's head hurt after some time. The quiet was what he enjoyed most, and it filled him with a pleasant nostalgia.

He got as comfortable as he could, let out a soft, contented sigh, and took a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is completely self-indulgent and sloppy because I want more happy Jack content, no matter how small. He deserves all the hats in the studio


	2. So Much More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice catches a searcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My laptop's keys broke, so this was written on phone and it shows. This is probably really choppy. I just had to write this ever since I got the idea. Ever heard of the theory of Alice creating the Projectionist?
> 
> Warnings: body horror, nonconsensual body modifications

Alice hated touching the ink. She hated it more than anything else. But it was a _pain_ to clean, and that sometimes resulted in...infestations.

Like the searcher she'd strapped to a table. She was in a particularly bad mood ever since it grabbed her by the leg, using her body as leverage to haul itself out of a puddle. It clung to a projector, like that horrid searcher that called itself Jack clung to his hat. It wasn't interested in her, completely determined to steal the other projectors in the room.

It was made of thick ink, stronger than the other searchers. It was massive, taller than her, and still clearly having some muscle. It still bore the faint outline of clothes that had melted into its skin. A sure sign that it hasn't been in the well much. It could think, so it made the choice to _touch her_.

Disgusting.

She was tempted to kill it, but...she was bored. There was nothing to do out here! A little torture would be just the thing to cure her boredom.

Not just what she did to the Butcher Gang clones, no! This horrid searcher deserved worse! It was clearly one of a kind, so it deserved some special treatment!

She gathered what she needed, including the thing's beloved projector. The searcher screamed. It wailed and thrashed throughout the operation. It sounded almost human. Thankfully, it shut up when she gave it a...new head. She wasn't stupid enough to outright cut off its head- that would kill it! The more she worked, the more she could picture the final product.

She worked slowly. Her gloves kept the ink off as she connected wires and turned its head this way and that. It was shaking, which wasn't helping.

When the projector turned on, she knew she'd done something right. The thing had bonded with it, whether it wanted to or not. It thrashed against the binds and its light danced across the room, casting moving shadows that only seemed to stress it out.

Alice almost regret putting in the speaker. Wires woven all through its chest to grant it speech, ink flowing like blood. It sobbed when it realized it could. It wept and babbled and cried, much to her distaste. She already missed the silence her domain held before, so she rushed a little.

After the finishing touches, choosing not to modify it as much as she liked, she stood back. She threw in a film reel just to annoy it. Just for fun. Maybe it would damage the arm, but whatever. It looked nice to her- really brought it all together! Really drilled in its theme! She admired it. It was exhausted, still crying and shivering, but no longer trying to escape.

What to do with it now, though?

She skirted around the projector's light, and took a can of bacon soup. She threw it at the wall, and it spasmed violently. It cried out at it, struggling once more. What a stupid thing.

Alice laughed at its suffering. She watched it for a while longer, listening to its garbled whimpering. Where had she heard that voice before? She idly rubbed her head in thought. Hmph. Whatever this thing, this projectionist, used to be...it was of no interest to her.

Projectionist. What a perfect name! Alice smiled. " _The Projectionist_. It suits you, don't you think?" She cooed. It made no sign of hearing her. That annoyed her. The least it could do was acknowledge her!

Whatever. It was probably deaf, anyways. A small price to pay for everything else she gave it.

Then she realized that it could probably kill her. It was strong and put up a fight going onto the table. Being given wires that held it together wasn't exactly working in her favor.

But...killing it would be a waste. Alice sighed dramatically. What a chore it was, to be as skilled and smart as she was! Maybe she could dump it somewhere so she could admire it from afar. Yes, that sounded good.

So Alice pulled the lever to release the Projectionist, and promptly left the room before it spotted her. Here, she controlled everything in Heavenly Toys. Including the lights.

She turned it all off, and began the painstaking process of luring the Projectionist to light after light. The thing stumbled under its new head, bumping into walls and nearly falling over. It was tall before, but now it was just stupidly tall with its body properly held together. It was at least six feet tall, and would tower over Alice if it bothered to stand straighter.

It kept making that awful sobbing sound. It might've been speaking, or praying, or just weeping, but Alice was growing tired of its chattering. It would yell whenever the next light turned on, skirting towards it and completely forgetting about the other lights.

It tripped over God knows what, which didn't surprise Alice, and fell down with a wheeze. The speaker popped, and the only sound that left it was a robotic scream. Did it break her hard work already? Really?

The Projectionist, as Alice settled on calling it, stumbled up, spinning in a circle before spotting the light again and going towards it. It was like a moth, flitting towards the next light, then the next. It kept grumbling and yelping in a new, horrible grating way, but soon it would be out of her hair.

She led it straight to the elevator and shut the doors. It looked around before reaching out to touch the gates, perhaps to try escaping. "Goodbye!" She crooned over the speakers, and let it drop. The Projectionist's scream faded into a blissful nothing. Finally, some quiet!

It would be right at home in the old projectionist's offices.


	3. Nap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang gets some sleep.

Henry Stein thought he'd seen it all. Every option gone through, every glitch in the cycle done five times over. Everything that could happen did happen. He got the tommy gun, knocked out the Projectionist plenty of times, and found the glowing messages. Nothing else was left to find.

Or so he thought.

A new cycle, another reset, and soon he'd been on his way to the music department. He'd tried breaking the game here many a time. Typically it involved screaming at Sammy when he triggered his appearance in the booth. He'd raved and begged him to understand, to listen. He'd promised freedom and told how he'd be betrayed and inevitably be driven to madness. He'd thrown objects at him and played songs and even just sat there, staring back at him.

None of it brought change. Sammy would continue staring at him with that soulless mask, not saying a word. The most he'd gotten was a tilt of the head or the man downright turning and leaving. He'd always get a snide remark about being a very sick, delusional sheep while being readied for sacrifice. He'd given up on breaking the cycle that way.

So he hadn't exactly been thinking about him when he walked into the booth, already having a hand out for the projector.

Needless to say, Sammy's presence there had been a shock.

He wasn't standing, but instead leaned back on a chair precariously tipped on its back legs. His feet were kicked up on the booth's window and his arms loosely crossed over his chest.

Henry didn't speak. He didn't even move- he just stared, waiting with baited breath for Sammy to say something or react or even turn to him. What the bloody, inky hell had he done to trigger this?

It took far longer than he'd ever admit to realize Sammy Lawrence was asleep.

The calm, measured rise and fall of his chest was what gave it away. Then Henry noticed how his mask was askew and his head lolled to the side, showing his lack of a definite face just a little bit. He was out cold.

Henry just stood there, unsure of what to do. The sight of the sharpened axe leaning against the chair made him reconsider waking him up. Sammy was incredibly fit for whatever he was(a searcher?) and could be downright feral, if his fight had anything to say about it. He didn't want to find out how jumpy he'd be if woken up.

So he watched him sleep, feeling a little strange doing so. He looked oddly peaceful. Not brainwashed or insane, just....sleeping. He eventually decided he'd get the sanctuary open and deal with him if the noise woke him up.

He crept out of the room to find the order of the instruments. He played them, all the while looking up and keeping an eye on Sammy. He got sidetracked by the swarm of searchers, and during those few minutes, he hasn't been looking.

When they were all dealt with and he looked up at the booth, he couldn't see Sammy up there. He was deeply disappointed to find he'd missed him leaving. He'd always wondered how Sammy even got up there.

But it was over. Going up to the booth confirmed Sammy was gone. The chair was tipped over and part of him wondered if he'd spooked him. The thought of him falling out of a chair at the grinding of the sanctuary doors opening made him chuckle.

Henry decided he'd tease Sammy about it when he got the chance.

* * *

He always felt bad about killing Jack Fain.

The poor guy just wanted to chill with a valve. Henry found himself always apologizing for squashing him. He was just too skittish, and the slightest noise or sudden movement freaked him out. How else could he get the valve he needed?

This cycle was, apparently, full of sleep. He found he wasn't even surprised to see Jack curled up on the wooden platform, the box pushed off. The blob looked like a cat, actually _snoring_ as he slept.

Henry approached Jack very slowly. He knelt down to get a closer look. This was the closest he'd gotten to him, and could see he had a face. Interesting.

He was clutching the valve in his sleep. Jack was hugging and cuddled up to it, his hat nearly falling off. Henry straightened and backed up, getting an idea.

The wood he'd cut down to get sewer access would do just nicely. Henry picked up a piece, deeming it worthy, and returned to the lyricist. He didn't want to hurt him or even disturb his sleep.

Taking care to slosh through the ink quietly, Henry knelt at Jack's side. Thus began the nervous process of slipping the wood into Jack's hands and swapping the valve out.

"...sleep well, Jack." Henry murmured, pulling the valve out of the blob's hold. Jack tightened his grip on the piece of wood. He straightened the hat on his head very gently. He deserved a quiet, nice nap. Henry remembered how his audio logs mentioned Jack's love of quiet.

He left soon after. Maybe this cycle wouldn't be so bad, if not a little silly.

* * *

Boris was asleep, too. Henry had woken up to find him resting his head in his arms, snoring quietly. He found this rather in-character for him.

This amused Henry. Was everyone going to be sleeping? He definitely wasn't complaining- change itself was rare, and _nice_ change would be cherished for every second it lasted. It didn't really impact the main story much, since Sammy still tried to sacrifice him, he still got the valve, and Boris still gathered him up. Boris was one of his favorites, as biased as he was, and he didn't mind petting him while he slept.

He made him soup, not even thinking about possibly stealing the things he needed and leaving without him. Not that he could, given how he needed Boris to crawl through the vents. He was just so used to dumping three cans of bacon soup into a pot and calling it food, despite how the smell sickened him.

Boris's delight at waking up to the smell of hot bacon soup warmed Henry's heart.

* * *

Alice had been...interesting.

Henry had gone over how it could possibly play out in his head. Whether or not it'd make a drastic change. He was still unnerved, walking through the dark towards the glass window. Heavenly Toys always made Henry nervous. No number of loops would change that.

It looked like Alice hadn't been gifted by the glitch, and the beating of his heart nearly drowned out the song.

Perhaps the amusement after seeing everyone sleeping had made Henry weak to the studio's horror, or he was simply as big of a scaredy-cat as he always was. Either way, the shriek of " _I'M ALICE ANGEL!_ " scared him half to death.

So, no sleep for her, then.

He continued on his way through the cycle, actually taking it seriously. The Butcher Gang clone still burst out of the poster. He entered the elevator all the same.

"You've caught me off guard, I'll admit," Alice's voice rang from unseen speakers, "I had been getting beauty sleep when you showed up... You're _very_ interesting. Well... I suppose you need to make up for that. You have a date with an _angel...~_! Find me on level 9, just follow the screams..."

Henry snorted. He couldn't help himself. The whole situation was just...ridiculous! "I think she needs more beauty sleep by the sound of it, huh, Boris?" Boris snickered.

They continued. Henry comforted Boris as he always did when they walked through the flooded graveyard of Boris clones, all torn apart and lifeless. It always disturbed him. How many Boris had there been? Was the studio once full of them, slowly being picked off by a perfectionist angel?

Alice gave the same speech she usually did at the end. Talking about the well, the shift of her voice as it tried to copy that of the cartoon she mimicked. Henry was spared, on the condition of a few favors.

Yeah, a few teensy, itty bitty favors...

* * *

The Projectionist had once been something Henry marveled at.

It was the second creature Henry had pieced together to once be human, the first being Sammy. He'd always wondered how what was once Norman Polk worked. If he thought at all, or was a mindless, violent beast.

Aside from simply looking absolutely badass, the Projectionist was a thing of wonder. Henry had wondered why nothing else lived in his halls despite being flooded with ink, or why the projectors still ran. He could only wonder if some part of Norman remained, tending to the machines and keeping them from overheating. The way he looked at him while he hid in the miracle station, unaware of what was going to happen in a few seconds. Could a lens portray emotion? Portray surprise, as the demon appeared?

But he could only watch him get his head ripped off so many times. It became numbing, saddening. Soon, the only thing Henry began to feel towards Norman was pity. It was just...depressing, watching what may or may not be a conscious, thinking creature die over and over. Watching Norman hunch over the weight of his head, sloshing through the ink in those thick rubber boots that melted into the rest of him. He went in a specific patrol through his halls, Henry had noticed. But it was hard to follow him without being seen. And once Henry was spotted, he didn't let up.

Henry couldn't help but wonder if the poor projectionist could even sleep. Did the light of his lens mean life or consciousness? Guess he'd find out soon enough.

He'd completed the needed steps to get the tommy gun, so he felt a little safer in case Norman posed a threat. Gunning him down felt weird whenever he did it, but it was either that or get ripped in half. He situated himself right beside Boris and made his way down, down, into the inky abyss.

"The Projectionist, an old friend... He'll be a nasty surprise when you see him... Just stay out of his light." Alice said. He could hear the smile in her voice. This wasn't new dialogue- sometimes Norman wasn't immediately visible, and those cycles Alice seemed especially giddy talking ominously about him. But it gave Henry hope. And curiosity.

He stepped out of the elevator, staring into the dark halls. He began his journey into them. It was probably best to find him before taking an ink heart...

So Henry wandered, looking around every corner and keeping an eye on every bit of light. He listened for footsteps or the rattle of Norman's machinery clicking and whirring, but all was quiet.

Convincing himself that if anyone in here was to break the trend, it would be the man with a projector for a head, so he prepared himself for a fright.

But that wasn't what happened. Henry rounded a corner to see one of the projectors playing a short clip over and over. The dead end housed a table and a couple of chairs that he'd never really noticed before. Maybe he had jumped over them in some far-passed cycle to escape imminent, shrieking death, or thrown a chair at said death.

The Projectionist was sat at the table, resting his head in his arms in a decidedly uncomfortable way. He was facing the looping cartoon, and there was no light coming from him.

Henry realized that he was practically made to have a struggle sleeping, with the head, speaker, and wires and all. He was surprised to see that Norman managed it. Still, the lack of light reminded him of his death. Henry didn't get any closer in fear of disturbing him.

That was, until he saw an ink heart sat in the corner of the room.

"Oh, come on..."

If the Projectionist woke up, he'd be right in his spotlight. Henry steeled himself for his first death of the cycle and skirted his way past the sleeping thing, pressing his back to the wall. He kept an eye on his breathing- the fact anything here still breathed was a shock- to assure him he was fast asleep.

Henry stood over the ink heart, which pulsed ever so slightly in its spot. The memory of them beating in his hands brought dread at the thought of touching one again.

Standing there wouldn't do anything, though. He picked it up with minimal hesitation, wincing at how wet it was. He looked back at Norman.

He'd shifted in his sleep, but that was all. His speaker sputtered out something unintelligible before quieting. His light remained off.

"Please stay asleep." Henry whispered. He snuck back away from him, clutching the heart in his hands.

It went way better than he could've ever hoped. Norman stayed out like, heh, a light. With every touch of the ink hearts, Henry would freeze and wait, but no sound came.

He retrieved the ink hearts with no trouble at all. It was probably the fastest he'd collected the hearts. He felt a little bad for it. Norman probably won't be happy, seeing his stuff gone when he woke up. But oh well.

He paid Norman one last visit, said a goodbye despite not being heard, and left.

* * *

Bertrum Piedmont. Simply put, he freaked Henry out. A head possessing a carnival ride. He was still unnerved every time the attraction started up and the doors swung open, showing the dead, swollen face of its creator.

Henry shuddered. He was in a rather rotten mood after losing Boris, crawling through the vents, and having to activate power. He wasn't exactly looking forward to seeing Bertie, asleep or not.

Could something that was dead even sleep?

He sighed as he entered Bertrum's room. Might as well get it over with, he thought, as he pressed 'play' on the audio log.

Nothing happened.

Confused, he pressed it again. The device granted him nothing. He picked it up, looking for whatever could be wrong with it, and saw it was empty.

How had he not noticed it before? The recorder was completely and utterly empty.

That meant that every cycle, every single time Henry had pressed play, Bertrum must've recited the same speech without fail. The head must've been able to speak, and could do so clearly.

Henry did not like that thought. He didn't dwell on it for fear of giving himself a headache or nightmares. He just set the audio log down and looked up at the motionless machine in front of him.

Somehow, getting the power on without fighting Bertie didn't feel rewarding. Henry wouldn't even touch the ride in case it woke him up. His newfound realization made him eager to get out and get the last lever down.

* * *

Bendy was _not_ asleep. He killed the Projectionist all the same. Henry held out hope that they would change, that this cycle would let something so drastic have lasting impact. He found himself waiting eagerly as Norman stumbled after him and reached towards his hiding spot.

His hopes were crushed as Bendy appeared and ripped the Projectionist's head off with the same vigor he always did.

Some things just couldn't be changed.

Henry got onto the train ride. He got Alice's same spiel and could only sit back and enjoy the ride.

Boris still got mutilated. Henry still struggled to dodge his charges and still found every blow he struck hard to do. He still felt awful watching Boris collapse and melt into a puddle.

For one moment he thought Allison and Tom wouldn't appear. But Alice was impaled all the same, which was good- he didn't know where he'd go if he had to run from an unrestrained angel. That was a change he did not want to see unfold.

As always, the travel to the hideout was a blur. No amount of focus would help him remember the journey. It was an enigma.

Again, as always, he began to feel tired when they shoved him into a little prison cell. They murmured and whispered to each other as he was guided to the bed. He didn't know what they were saying, and he was beginning not to care. Tom seemed upset, while Allison sounded concerned.

He was tired. He learned not to fight the sudden physical exhaustion that materialized when the two gathered him. The way his limbs suddenly ached made him wish for a place to lie down. His thoughts slipped away when he sat on the thin cot.

Tom boarded him in, as he always did. Allison said something about being excessive, but by then Henry was slipping. He just laid down on the cot- fighting never got anywhere. It felt like a blessing, despite how hard it was. Any chance to rest was welcome.

His age, if he still even aged anymore, caught up to him. He fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> However short I thought this "heehoo what if everyone got some sleep" idea was, I was wrong


	4. As long as the projectors get fixed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A projector gets busted, and Wally has to find a repairman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accept two ways Norman got nerfed(ignoring the novel's take, I haven't read it myself, so):  
> 1) Alice yoinks up searcher-Norman and "GavE hIM sO MuCh mORe"  
> 2) Joey got sick of him snooping and the studio unknowingly had a monster lumbering under it in its final weeks

"Hey, Wally!" Sammy. Goddamn, did Wally fear that man.

He didn't know when it began. He didn't know when Sammy began losing it. When Bertrum went missing? When Henry quit? When Grant stopped showing himself, and cries could be heard from his office? When Susie was replaced? When Tom got his arm caught in the ink machine and what came out was rumored to have _moved_? He wanted to quit, like Henry did. Just walk out and not turn back. He wanted to get outta there. But he needed the money.

Wally Franks steeled himself, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, Sam?" He looked over at the man. He was bird-like in watching everyone work. His eyes had a wild look in them. His hair was messy and unkempt. Ink often stained his sleeves and he had long stopped wearing nice clothing. Everyone's clothing got ink-stained now. "Wh-what is it?"

"Get this down to Polk. He didn't quit, did he? Oh, my, I do hope he's still here..." Sammy shoved a busted projector into Wally's arms. It was still hot and smoking and the lightbulb was shattered. He rambled on. "Haven't seen him in a while, actually...hm..."

Wally practically lived in the studio. He hasn't seen Norman Polk in weeks, now that he thought about it. He would've heard if he quit, right? Joey would've thrown a fit if they lost their best(and only) projectionist.

He tried to hire more to work under him, but very few people met the combined standards of Joey Drew and Norman Polk. The ones that did often didn't last long- working for a black man wasn't exactly a thing certain people liked, which was fine just by Norman himself. Plus, Norman's... _observance_ was often disliked. And his blackmail. Yeah, he had mountains of blackmail on everyone new and old. Wally included. Thankfully, Norman knew that Sammy would probably kill him if he found out who ate his cake, so he kept it between them.

"Well? Get a move on!" Sammy waved him off, turning on his heel. Wally had zoned out- commonplace nowadays. Disassociating helped him ignore the things happening around him. "Take it to Thomas Connor if Norman's not there."

"R-right, right." Wally mumbled, nodding quickly. He scurried off. The projector was heavy and uncomfortable in his arms.

He liked Norman. He enjoyed hearing Wally's latest gossip and, since he often ended up mopping up ink, they would spend time talking about all the weird people in the studio. Norman was patient. He didn't get mad when Wally forgot to clean a room or tripped or lost something. He'd even let him watch him fix projectors. It was a surprisingly delicate work. It made no sense to Wally's eyes, but it was still cool watching.

Wally popped into the elevator and tapped his foot as it traveled down. He hoped Norman was alright. Maybe they could catch up and Wally could vent to him about catching Sammy sipping ink like coffee. That would calm his nerves. Yeah! That sounded nice!

With a dull beep, the elevator stopped. The gates creaked open, and Wally paled at what was in front of him.

The lights were dim, as always, but even he could see that the floor was covered in a thin layer of ink. Wally was told Tom finally fixed the pipes. No, it was a lake in there!

"N-Norman?" Wally called out. He stepped out of the elevator, a shiver running up his spine. "I... It's me, Wally!"

Only the clicking of unseen projectors answered.

The projector began to make his arms ache. He was scrawny, unfit for carrying heavy things for long. He swallowed hard and set it down near the railing of the platform on a box. Norman didn't like it when the projectors were left laying around meaninglessly, he was always convinced they had a place to be, but he'd surely understand.

He took care to go down the stairs. He didn't want to trip down them now, of all times. "Norman?!"

He stepped into the ink, glad he decided to wear work boots today. He looked hard at the halls, dim and only lit by distant projectors. Was something moving?

Yes! A light was bobbing and growing closer. Norman was just carrying a projector, that's all. A bit strange it was being used like a flashlight, but whatever! Wally laughed shakily from how worried he'd been. He was paranoid over nothing! He waved. "Norman, over here! Man, y-you had me worried! Where have y-"

His words died in his tongue.

What stepped out of the halls wasn't Norman Polk. It wasn't even human. It _couldn't_ have been- it had a projector where a head should be.

It had his clothes. Soaked and blackened by ink, but they were his. It had his body, muscular from hauling around projectors all day. It had his boots. Its sleeves were rolled up, just like how Norman kept them, showing ink-stained arms bandaged from constantly being elbow-deep in sharp or burning machinery. Thick, snaking wires came out of the back of the projector and there was a speaker screwed to his chest.

Its mechanical shriek drowned out Wally's own scream.

He wheeled around and bolted. He lost his footing, his boots slipping over ink, and he tripped over the stairs and faceplanted onto wood. Stars shone in his eyes and pain shot through his nose. He stumbled, up, clawing his way up on all fours. "Oh golly, oh God, what the _hell_ is that-?!" His breath was a thin whistle after falling.

He threw himself into the elevator and slammed the button that shut the gate. He practically threw them shut himself, watching in horror as the thing stumbled up the stairs, its painfully bright spotlight locked onto him like a target-

-and it knocked against the projector he'd abandoned. It paused and looked down. All of the sudden it was like Wally wasn't there. It picked it up after a heartbeat of hesitation, looking back at Wally for a considering moment. It looked back at the projector and examined it, tilting it this way and that. It locked on the shattered bulb and made a rather _disgusted_ sound.

It cradled it close to its chest and walked away without so much as a glance back. He watched it return to the halls and vanish.

Wally began to breathe hard and fast, collapsing onto his rear. He sobbed suddenly and he realized his face was wet with tears. He could taste blood from his nose dribbling down into his mouth. Its metallic taste stung.

He scooted back opposite of the elevator's door, his legs shaking too hard to even think about walking. He sat there, shaking and crying, for several minutes. What he'd just seen and what it implies sank in.

"Oh, no. Oh God, Joey... N-Norman, what..." There was no way Joey didn't know. Joey knew everything! He was shady and obsessed with bringing the ink off the page!

What if he wasn't being metaphorical?

Wally's breath hitched. He tried to stand, leaning heavily on the elevator's walls. He stumbled to the floor buttons and pressed one, barely seeing it through his tear-blurred vision.

The elevator's shaking as it rose nearly brought him to his knees.

Norman was...was he dead? That thing, was it Norman Polk? Did Joey do that to him? Did Sammy do it? Thomas? Lacie? Half of those people were shady cult-y people, and the other half were engineers who might've pulled it off.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened.

"Oh! Hello, Wally- Oh my! What happened?" Who was talking to him? "Are- are you crying?! Is that blood?"

"Allison?" Wally croaked. Allison was nice. She wasn't satanic like Sammy Lawrence or purposefully ignorant like Bertrum or loud and brash like Lacie. She was new and pleasant. "I- g-get away, I-" he stumbled past her, not caring that he was tracking ink all over.

"Wally! Was Norman there?" Sammy was nearby. He frowned. "What happened to you? Why are you bringing ink in here?" He began walking towards them.

"Get away from me! I-I'm outta here!" Wally nearly fell over trying to dodge Sammy's outstretched hand. "D-don't go down there- N-Norman-"

"Did he kill himself, like Grant?" Sammy asked calmly.

"Grant WHAT?" Allison now looked mortified.

That derailed Wally's train of thoughts _real_ quickly. "N-no, he- I heard h-him, last night- in his office-"

"Wally... Didn't you hear? Didn't Drew tell you?" Sammy's voice was _too_ level. He had a calm, passive smile that showed fake worry. "Grant shot himself in his office. Blew his brain right into the wall. Several days ago, in fact. Are you alright? What have you been hearing?"

He's lying. He had to be. Wally knew what he heard. The sobbing and gross, wet sounds. He could never bring himself to peek inside, but he knew it was Grant. Joey said it was nothing. He said not to worry. He said he'd take care of it.

He could see it in Sammy's eyes. He could tell that the music director believed what he was saying. His worry for Wally was fake, though- Sammy Lawrence hated him with all his heart.

He knew it was a lie. He knew that Sammy saw his disbelief. And that terrified Wally. "...no, no, no... You- you don't..."

"Wally...? Are- actually Sammy, what do you mean Grant committed suicide?" Allison turned. "I don't remember an investigation! What about his family? Police?"

Sammy huffed, suddenly looking like it was an inconvenience to explain. "You're new. It doesn't concern you. Joey has it covered."

Wally began backing away he stumbled over himself. "Y-you tell Mr. Drew, Lawrence- I'm done! I'm outta here!" He snapped, trying to sound confident and failing. He was terrified and it showed.

"Now, Wally... That's a bit much. Let's talk about it. I'm sure whatever happened can be settled with Joey-"

"Nope! No!" The thought of even looking at Joey made him feel ill. "You bloody hear me, Sammy?! I'm _outta_ here!" He yelled, forcing his panic to turn into volume. Maybe if he shouted loudly enough, Sammy would stop speaking in that condescending tone.

He heard Allison following him, saying something, but it was muffled. His ears rang with the memory of that awful noise not-Norman had let out. He just had to leave. He'd go right upstairs. He'd open that door and walk right out!

He didn't look back.

* * *

Joey sighed.

The show needed love to keep running. Love and care and attention. That required sacrifice, and Norman made a fine sacrifice. So did Susie, for a while. And Grant- thank goodness Sammy's disoriented mind took the suicide lie and spread it while Joey dealt with what was left of the man smeared across the floor in an inky lump. Even Shawn Flynn, loud and blunt as he was, made a lovely offering, and was forgotten under the guise of quitting. Too bad the nudge towards sacrifice he gave Tom only took his arm. The ink machine was hungry, he teased. Tom hadn't found that as funny as he did.

But things worked without some staff. Bendy Land was on hold. Soon, with the real thing, they wouldn't need robots! Lacie wouldn't interfere, he made sure of that. Bertrum was safely in hibernation, and locked away from view.

Allison replaced Susie. The old Alice Angel was...somewhere in the ink. Joey wasn't quite sure where she ended up. She'd gone out screaming in that heavenly voice of hers, though! He missed it...he really did!

Songs were still being written. Sammy preformed just fine with his shrinking band. Jack still wrote lyrics in the isolation of the sewers, sweetly oblivious to the horrors around him. He shut his nose _and_ his common sense down there!

The cartoonists whose names Joey didn't care to remember still drew, albeit not to the standard Henry had held.

The projectors would still be fixed. Fickle things, they were. Breaking and overheating often. He'd sent Sammy down there with advice to not linger, and he'd returned in just a few minutes, saying the repaired projector had been sitting neatly on a box in front of the elevator, playing a cartoon on loop. The ink handprints had to be wiped off, and then it was as good as new!

As long as the projectors get fixed, as long as there are songs being written, as long as cartoons were being drawn, as long as Tom kept tinkering away and as long as Sammy kept his mouth shut, things would go well. A shame they lost their janitor, but ink could only be removed so often before it stained permanently.

The ink machine functioned just fine without Wally.


	5. Bendy and the Ink Machine 2: Roadtrip AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of them had really thought out what to do after they got out, and it shows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not offer context for this, I wrote this at four in the morning and it shows

It was dawn.

Tears were shed, words were exchanged, and they just sat on the stairs leading up to the studio. It was... nice. The ground was wet from rain and the ground was black with diluted ink.

They were all in one piece. Bertrum was, by some miracle, alive, and was elated to have legs. Norman was a person, perfectly capable of hearing and thought. Buddy was no longer a perfect Boris. Sammy, as well as several other searchers and lost ones, threw up mouthfuls of ink soon after leaving. They were all people. Human.

The thing was, thirty years had passed. Joey Drew Studios was a sad building from the outside, out of the way, only lit up by a dim light. They were a bunch of people sitting and standing around a long abandoned building. They were splattered with various degrees of ink and dressed in fashion thirty years late. A few dozen once-mad lost ones and searchers had been the first to break into a sprint without looking back, scattering in every direction. That was all a little shady.

So shady, that when someone spotted them, the cops were called.

"We should probably run." Henry suggested. He stood up with a grunt. Parked near the curb was a minivan. _His_ minivan, he remembered vaguely.

"Why?" Grant asked. He was sitting, being wobbly on his legs, and Jack had joined him in just appreciating having legs back. "Can't we rest after _that_?"

"We're trespassing and just...look at us. Come on- all of you." He stuck his hand into his pocket and wasn't the least bit surprised to find his keys. He unlocked his car. "Alright, everyone. Get in."

"Oh, so that's what cars look like nowadays." Norman grunted, his voice scratchy. He stretched for the millionth time and his neck cracked, no doubt aching after so long supporting a projector. "Cool."

"Yeah... You have a lot of things to catch up on." He grabbed the person nearest him- Sammy- and shoved him into the shotgun. "It's gonna be a tight fit."

Sammy looked around, still out of it. He looked back at the studio before looking around the street. "Anyone else hear ringing?"

"Those are....sirens." Allison eased into the middle seat. Tom sat in the other seat. The back row was filled by Grant, Buddy, and Susie. The latter avoided all eye contact and simply apologized to Buddy, who scoffed.

Henry popped the trunk after easing into the driver's seat. He looked back at Norman, who simply shrugged and walked around back. "Get in here, Jack." He pulled the man in with him, earning some protest. The trunk was shut, and the two sat rather awkwardly back there.

"Well, isn't this cozy?" Sammy looked behind him at the others. "...where are we going?"

"Wally Franks had a business. We can track it down, I guess." Henry shrugged. Sammy scoffed. "Don't whine. It's somewhere. He probably knows what Joey had been doing. Maybe he'll be understanding and offer shelter."

"Fine, but-"

"Hey! Hey, don't go without me!"

Bendy crashed out of the studio, grotesquely humanoid and lanky and falling apart with every gallop. How it sounded distressed with an unmoving grin was a mystery.

"Actually, Wally sounds great! Go, go!"

Henry started up the minivan, right as Bendy began to...shift. He melted, colors turning straight and neat. One of his legs was still deformed. A tiny perfect Bendy threw itself at the window with a splat.

"Drive!" Sammy snapped. Henry looked him dead in the eye and rolled down the window.

Bendy fell into Sammy's lap, only to jump out and skitter into Henry. "Don't leave me!" He cried.

"Throw that thing out of here!" Norman called. "Don't be fooled by him!"

"No!" The cartoon cried, sitting right where he was and hugging his knees up to his chest.

"I can throw him _for_ you." Susie offered.

"Nobody's throwing anyone!" Henry snapped. Blue and red light flooded the minivan. "Bendy, we'll deal with you later! Hide! The rest of you, act normal!"

Sammy opened the glovebox, saw it was empty, and grabbed Bendy. He shoved him into it. Obeying cartoon physics, Bendy melted right into it, shrieking in outrage. He shut it right as someone tapped on the window.

Henry was pale as he rolled down the window. The officer outside raised an eyebrow, looking at the array of ink-covered misfits before her. Buddy gave a little wave and Jack sank quietly out of view.

"We've gotten a report of...loitering and suspicious activity. Do you know anything about that? Why are you all idling here?"

Henry knew damn well he didn't have anything on him. "I..." He hesitated, trying to think of an excuse.

Bendy burst out of the glovebox. "The AUDACITY of you to do that! I am your god, your _lord_! I demand you get on your knees and _pray_ I-" Sammy clamped a hand over his mouth. The darling demon focused on what was around him and made stern eye contact with the stunned officer. "...what're you looking at?"

"Move it, Henry!" Allison hissed, and Henry did just that.

The car made an unhappy noise before it started moving. The officer didn't have time to react before the minivan was skidding past her.

They tore down the road. Henry had no clue where they were, nor did he care. He just floored it.

He heard shouting, and the sirens returned. Bendy scoffed, poking his head out of the window. "Buncha meanies! Hold on, I got this!" He made a vague motion with his hands and, like magic, all the ink was sucked out of Sammy's clothing. He molded it into a ball. "Hey, old man, you ready to be an outlaw?"

"Bendy, whatever you're about to do-"

He threw the ink at the car. It splattered over the windshield and it skidded to a halt. The wipers only smeared it and did little to remove it.

Bendy sat himself back down on Henry's lap, frowning. "...now can I stay?" He asked, kicking his legs.

"I re-suggest throwing him." Bertrum piped up.

"Henry, Bendy literally murdered me. Multiple times." Norman said dryly. "Drop him under the wheels."

"Sorry about that, but that was barely me! More Joey's script!" Bendy barked, crossing his arms. "Not my fault I was his puppet!"

"Guys, he has a point..." Henry tried to focus on the road. "And he did...as much as I don't like it, he helped us by keeping the police off us. For now, at least. Bendy's staying."

"Yay!"

The others all groaned.

* * *

Wally Franks had been reading the daily newspaper outside of his cozy home, sitting snugly in his rocking chair and drinking his morning coffee.

The headline nearly made him choke on his coffee.

**THE ESCAPEES OF JOEY DREW STUDIOS?**


	6. Closet Blackmail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lacie comes to Sammy with a demand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: period-typical homophobia, internalized homophobia

"Hey! Sam the music man, get yer ass over here!"

Lacie? She was never up here. Music and engineering were on opposite ends of the studio. Sammy barely looked up from the lyric sheet Jack had given him to review. "What do you want?"

"I wanna talk!" Lacie bounced behind him. The noise of her boots squeaking on the wood grated his patience. "About some music for Bendy Land!"

He groaned. That horrid place? He thought Joey had been happy with the last song! "Hmph... Very well. Let's go to my office to talk in peace." He set the sheet down. He walked away without checking to make sure she was following.

She shut the door behind her, thankfully not a _complete_ heathen. Sammy was already opening drawers to find scrapped works he might have to bring back. "Alright, then... What exactly does Joey have to complain about now?"

"Actually, I lied!" Lacie chuckled sharply. "I wanted ta ask ya somethin'!"

"Oh, if that's the case, get out of my-"

"Are ya gay?"

Sammy tripped over his words, crumpling the fistful papers in his hands. He stepped back as if she'd threatened him- she might as well have. "How-" he caught himself and swallowed hard, fixing his posture and clearing his throat. He set the wrinkled lyrics down. "Why would you assume that?"

"Christ!" She laughed hard, doubling over a little. She sighed and wiped a tear. "Norman was right!"

"What does Polk have to do with this?!" That was even worse! The thought of Norman knowing he was gay for Lord knows how long made him wildly flustered.

"Long story!" Lacie flashed a grin. "Don't look at me like that! Ya look like I just stabbed ya mum! I get it, ya feel? Joey would ruin you if he knew!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Sammy hissed. "What do you want from me?!"

Lacie let out a breath and leaned against the door, crossing her arms. "A date with Susie."

"...excuse me?"

She sighed dreamily, her cheeks turning rosy red. "Christ, she's so pretty! And confirming yer about as straight as I am, you're dating her to keep up yer image!"

"How do you expect me to... You- What does Norman-"

"Okay, ya still caught up on that. Let me start from da start- ha!" Lacy yanked the chair from his desk and sat down. "I got blackmail on Norman."

"You're lying. He's more secretive than Joey is!" Still, a claim like that worried him. Nobody just _had_ blackmail in the Studios. It was a weapon. And Norman was armed to the teeth. Whatever Lacie had on him must've been bad.

"Still! He didn't expect a lass like me to barge in when he wasn't around and rummage through his shit! Truth be told, I was looking for stuff for Bertrum, but what I found was... Way better!" She smiled, a glint in her eyes. "So, I brought it up real casually with him... Oh, Lawrence, ya should've seen how terrified he was! Ah, bringing the private, stoic projectionist down... Felt great!"

"That's lovely. Really, arming for battle with him of all people, it's smart. What does that have to do with-"

"Not done!" She shushed him. "I wanted a chance with Susie. So, I asked him if I could have any chance at it, or at least wrecking her thing with you. He said I did, said ya weren't as straight as ya seem! Don't ask me how he figured that out. I got no clue."

"So you're putting my reputation and livelihood on the line....because you want a date."

"Well, when you put it like that..." She shrugged. "I'm not that sick, Sammy man. If anything, you're an asshole for faking it to Susie!" Her tone turned bitter. "Really, she deserves better than you."

"I know! She's a lovely woman, and I hate toying with her, but I- how would I break it off?! Everyone thinks we're doing swell! Joey thinks we're a great publicity stunt and he'd have a fit if we parted!" His shoulders slumped. "...what do you want me to do?"

"Oooo! I'm so excited!" She giggled, and went on, "I'm thinking you hook us up in a recording booth, under the guise of recording lines for, I dunno, a background song for Bendy Hell. I just wanna talk. Flirt. Ask her to lunch. Compliment her hair, her voice... The works. Y'know?"

Sammy rubbed the bridge of his nose, starting to get a headache. So much for burying that part of himself. "I... I can do that. If I do this, will you keep my... _preferences_... under wraps?"

"Yeppers!"

"Great. Now get out of my chair." He pulled her off and went back to rummaging through his scrapped songs. "Why don't you go to Jack? He actually writes the lyrics."

"Bah! You just make up scraps, anything will work. Plus, I have more questions to pester yer sorry flat ass with." She continued before he could bite back. "So...! Well, do ya fancy anyone?"

He paused, then asked, "Am I in any danger if I refuse to answer?"

"Nope. I figured I can offer help, since yer helping me 'n all. I'll keep my yapper shut, promise!"

"Keep in mind that I don't plan to act on it. I... It's abnormal."

"Yeesh, dude. Ya make it sound wrong."

"It _is_." Sammy didn't know how she couldn't see that. "Maybe getting it off my chest would help me get over it, however..."

"Okay, great! Who is it?" She leaned forwards, her eyes alight with a curious fire.

He mumbled something under his breath.

"Hm?"

He repeated himself. It felt strange to say it aloud, and stranger to repeat it. It wasn't quite relief, more akin to fear that he was confirming something wrong about himself.

Lacie began to grin, one eyebrow cocked. "Sorry! My ears must not be workin' as well as they used to! Care to say that a little louder?"

"It's Norman! There, _happy_?" He spat, feeling his heart do _something_ that made him feel like both throw up for being so outcast and fawn over the damned man he had a crush on.

She burst out laughing. Sammy felt his face grow hot. "Wh-why are you laughing?! I'm not mocking you for having a thing for Susie!"

"No, no, I'm not judging, I swear! Nothin's wrong with it! It's just....oh, wow! I don't believe it! Why him?! The hell do ya see in a brick wall?!"

Sammy crossed his arms and huffed. "Well, he's...nice! You just don't see it! He's very patient and talented and his voice is...very soothing to listen to... Anyways! Granted, he probably hates me, but a man can dream!"

"Fair, fair.... Ya think ya got a shot with him?"

"Lord above, no!" Sammy sighed heavily. He frowned. "I... I like the thought of, in a better world, actually...being with him...but in reality he's probably...not like that. I plan to find a wife and fake my sexuality until I'm dead. I will bury it so deep within myself I magically become straight and love a woman they way I _should_. Frankly, I think you should do the same and not risk getting killed over a girlfriend."

"....damn, dude. You really got a messed up stance. Of all the things to get ya bent, it's societal pressure." Lacie frowned, knotting her brows together. "...I'll get goin', then. Just call me up whenever you get Susie sorted. And, just so ya won't tear yerself apart over bein' gay... It's okay. Nothin's wrong. Yer not broken, or weird, for liking men. Nor am I off for likin' woman."

"...yeah. Okay, right." Sammy muttered. He didn't quite believe her, but being told that helped get his heartbeat under control. He closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself, running a hand through his hair. "...what _did_ you have on Norman, anyways?"

Lacie paused, reaching for the doorknob. "Right! Forgot about that! He had this embarrassing little audio log about the person he fancied. Went on and on about what he liked about 'em- personally, I got no clue what he saw. Hidden up on a shelf behind a box o' reels and everything."

"...oh. Well, forget I asked." Sammy's heart sank a little. He leaned back in his chair, choosing to ignore how that hurt. He fidgeted with his hands to distract himself.

"What was their name again?" Lacie drawled on, drumming her fingers on the knob. "Oh, right! It was the oblivious, uptight _music director,_ with 'lovely hair' and 'admirable, stubborn determination', _Sammy Lawrence_."

With that, she swung the door open and bolted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slides my Sammy/Norman agenda cross the table*


	7. The ink people have fun. That's it that's the story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some insights on culture and entertainment in the studio.

The array of souls stood in a somewhat uniform line. They were all excited, bouncing or simply jiggling as much as their bodies allowed.

Ever since Bertrum had calmed down and stopped splattering them against walls, he'd quickly gotten comfy with their praise. Even if it was written on the walls or just excited warbling, Bertrum enjoyed having his ego inflated. His work was finally being appreciated, after all!

Half of them had never even been on a teacup ride and it showed. Being thrown around at high speeds was only for the brave, inexperienced, of naïve of them. Each session ended with a few puddles and less people getting off than had gotten on. Buckets were used and the remains of the participants were typically mopped in to reform in safety. Those ones often popped out and bolted, receiving enough thrill to last a while.

Nonetheless, there were many of them new and old who wanted a turn.

"Alright, are we all clear? Shall the next ones get in?" Bertrum's head turned and, after seeing the lost ones who'd designated themselves 'staff' nodding, smiled best he could. "Wonderful!"

The line jostled as the first few darted to pick seats. The searchers were lifted by lost ones accompanying them, while the swollen ones hefted themselves in with sheer strength. Bertrum's machine body was strong enough to take the extra weight.

Soon the ride was full and the shortened waiting line became sparse. The ones now moved up to the front looked up at the ride to watch in excitement.

A puff of steam, and the mechanical arms lifted. The safety rails clicked shut uselessly- they were all either too skeletal or two round for them. The more ink-stuffed swollen searchers melted over them with some complaint, while some more clever others used it to hold themselves down.

It was best they got a grip on something, because the ride picked up speed very quickly.

Onlookers looked up in awe, watching the arms whirl around, rising and lowering while the seats spun. The golden glow of the lost ones' eyes blurred with motion and left streaks of color behind them and, being more frail, several were flattened against the seats within seconds. A cacophony of regretful shrieks and bubbling laughter rose.

Some clung to each other while others just screamed and tried to cling to the side of the carts for safety. The ones already on their third or fourth go were laughing, raising their arms once sure the safety rails wouldn't let them go careening out _too_ easily.

Of course, one searcher- this one in a mining helmet- was thrown out. It hit the wall hat-first and fell onto a poor lost one, bringing them both down in a heap. The lost one laughed hard, its whole body shaking with rare joy. It hugged the dazed searcher, not very bothered about being squished.

Right when it seemed to get a little too intense for most of the riders, Bertrum slowed and lowered his arms. He eased the ride to a stop, a low chuckle leaving him. He was panting. "Alright, we're done, now...did you all have your fun?"

A lost one fell out and wheezed in response, giving a thumbs-up. The self-appointed staff got to helping the rest out, amused murmurings passing through them.

A searcher, this one sitting at the front if the line, let out a curious coo. Bertrum sighed. "My deepest apologies, but that's enough for today-"

A wave of distain swept through the crowd. Bertrum simply smiled tiredly, his pale sepia flesh straining to emote even the slightest. His glazed eyes focused somewhat on the searcher. "Moving does take a lot out of me..."

The staff nodded and looked over at the rest. As Bertrum started closing up and going limp, they hefted up the buckets of their melted friends and started huffing at everything to go. Talking was difficult, but they got the point across. Let him rest in peace and don't bother him.

* * *

Sammy rarely took time to himself. He was always moving or writing or pacing. When had he found a banjo, sat down, and played?

He was emotionally drained. Just getting to the Harbor was laborious work and they distrusted him for, well, sacrificing them back when he so foolishly trusted the demon. He picked up his banjo- he had many stashed all over, all called his- and slumped on a chair overlooking the Lost Harbor.

The inhabitants wandered or grumbled at each other. Some made a show of molding thick ink into shapes. Others fished in the lake, or tried to reel in floating debris. They seemed to be placing bets on who'd get a more valuable item. A few miners had begun molding ink dampened earth into sandcastles of sorts. A huddled group were taking turns tossing a soup can to one another. They were happy, free of threat and worry. This was the brightest they've been in the few days Sammy's been there.

It was nice. The background noise of it all put Sammy into a pleasant trance. He closed his eyes and tuned his instrument carefully. Four fingers on each hand certainly made playing difficult, but he was adjusting.

He crossed his legs and leaned back, settling further in the wooden chair. His mind wandered away from what his hands were doing.

He plucked a few notes, testing it before going back to tuning. After a moment, it began to sound _right_ to him. He sighed lightly and began to play a slow, unhurried tune.

Adjusting to the feeling of playing after so long, he got back into his old groove. He wasn't rushing to finish a song for... Whoever he made songs for, before all this. He wasn't stressing over making new tune. An old song would make do.

He opened his eyes, just a little, and was met with several lost ones. He paused, and one softly gurgled out, "Keep...playing?"

Quirking an 'eyebrow', he got back to playing. Might as well shift into a more upbeat song now that he had an audience. How many others even knew how to play the instruments laying around? Maybe an actual musician was rare down here.

Sammy played out a song he had forgotten the name of. It made him...happy. Oddly carefree, _himself_. His gaze refocused to see a larger crowd had gathered. Surprising himself, he found he didn't care about the attention. He was playing for himself, after all. They could listen in if they so wished.

Not paying attention to whoever had decided he was entertaining, he played. His heart- if he even still had one- swelled with a missed nostalgia. It felt right, like this was where he was supposed to be; strumming his banjo for himself, playing whatever melody came to mind.

It was nice.

* * *

The point of a projectionist was to, well, make sure the projectors could play movies and cartoons. However, the Projectionist himself never watched the looping short clips.

Information of whatever was dinging around his head was limited. It had to be quick peeks, in and out of the ink before he saw. Either that, or hope Alice was in the mood to drone on about his behaviors without killing the listener for being imperfect. She saw him like a rat scurrying around a maze.

Nobody knew who he was fixing the projectors for, if anyone. If for nobody, why was he maintaining them at all?

Most searchers had already gotten experience with him. The abyss was a large reforming spot, and often spat out unwilling searchers. Most of them knew to leave when finding out where they were.

Most.

A handful, however, had just gotten distracted. They'd been exploring and just happened to pop in right in front of a cartoon. Entertainment for searchers was different than lost ones- they intermingled in few places. Lost ones prided themselves in being careful and communal, while the searchers were more...daredevilish.

They had nothing to lose, so this group stayed put and watched.

This projector was playing a full cartoon on loop. One of the better made ten minute episodes. Sure they hated Bendy, but this was new! And new was fun. They were happy, cuddled up in an inky lump of contentment.

Until the Projectionist's light washed over them, of course.

He let out a strangled noise, not quite his signature shriek. The searchers stayed still. They didn't turn or even try leaving. Leaving meant putting the more frozen friends in harm's way.

He loomed over them, head bowed to glare his light in their faces. He turned to the film they had been watching, then looked back at him.

Much to their horror, the Projectionist pulled out a chair from under the desk and sat. He sat in it backwards, oddly enough; his wires would've been squished otherwise. He leaned on the back of the chair and watched them intently.

And watched.

They got back to watching the cartoon after a few tense minutes. One by one, they loosened up. He wasn't hurting them or pissed off, so...why leave?

After the reel played a couple times, he got up and very calmly replaced it with another. How he sorted through them without labels was a mystery. He let another Bendy episode play.

And so the searchers got comfortable for a marathon. He watched them shift in place to lean against one another, even making a jolt towards them when one left back into the ink, but he didn't strike outright.

He sat back down and kept his light on the film, creating an odd, paling effective on it, but it was still watchable. Occasionally, the Projectionist would lean over to peer down at them, very obviously keeping count them. Maybe he wanted to make sure they were all there, watching with him. He _did_ seem upset when six dwindled down to five when he wasn't looking.

They were there for a long time.

* * *

The Butcher Gang clones were broadly violent. Attacking anything that moved- lost ones, searchers, even each other if their personal bubble was intruded.

The Strikers, less so. Perhaps because the original Edgar was a squeaky little baby of a creature. No matter the reason, Strikers are somewhat passive.

Like this one, in a hall. It had found a wooden duck with wheels on a string and was wheeling it around. Its teeth chattered excitedly as it trundled in circles, always making an elated noise when looking back at its toy.

It was so content, it hadn't noticed a baffled Allison staring at it for a solid ten minutes.

She had never seen such behavior in one before. It was expressing a childlike joy. It was laughing. She didn't quite know what to do.

Tom would crush it, she knew that much. And the thought of the weird little monster getting its face bashed in didn't sit well with her. She steeled herself. "Hey, little guy."

The Striker froze, then suddenly yanked its duck on wheels up into its arms and looked back at her with wide eyes. It started clattering at her, rasping nonsense in an attempt to spook her off.

"It's okay. Shh. I won't hurt you." Allison slowly got on her knees, speaking in the softest tone she could muster. "Is that your toy? It's very nice."

It looked very suspicious of her. It gradually took a step back- right as Tom rounded the corner behind it.

"Tom. Don't."

The Striker wheeled around and garbled out a mess of noise, backing up. Tom hit his axe against his palm with a clank and stepped towards it.

Allison raised her hand and set it carefully on the poor thing's shoulder. It flinched and cast a glance back at her. "Tom... He's just scared! Don't hurt him."

Tom growled. The Striker was suddenly very willing to be picked up, hugging its toy tight. Allison stood with it in her arms.

Tom glared at her and chuffed.

"We're keeping him."

The noise that poor wolf made was one of raw exasperation.

Allison wasn't budging, so Tom had no choice to cave and let her coddle the monster. They continued walking through the halls. He kept glaring at it as it looked over her shoulder at him. It blew a raspberry at him.


	8. The Cycle Cracked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy unwittingly changes things. It does not go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is tied into a larger story that's in the works, so a lot of this is taken out of context. Just practice to see how it can be written out! Enjoy the angst. :)
> 
> Warnings: Graphic violence, crushing, dismemberment, disembowelment, death

Sammy woke up.

He shot upright in the old cot he called his bed, his breath caught in his throat. A migraine split into his head, severing him from the _horrid_ nightmare that had woken him up.

_Burning. Harsh, golden light. Falling to his knees, screaming, begging it to end, then, nothing._

It was already fading and the seconds ticked by, and he got his breathing under control. His head still throbbed dully, though. He righted his mask, comforted by its presence. Long ago, he'd begun wearing it to sleep to ward off nightmares. It didn't work. His Lord's power shouldn't be used for such trivial things, he'd supposed. Still, he kept it on all hours of the day. A sign of faith was still a sign of faith, even if it wasn't magical.

He slipped out of bed and stretched. His mind calmed. Whatever he'd dreamt about, it was gone. Wisps in the darkness of his mind, buried under the tasks a new day brought.

There was work to be done, and he prided himself in routine. Straightening his suspenders, he got straight to work.

Sammy Lawrence went through his day as he did any other. He tidied up cutouts, prayed, and ensured the studio was as it should be. The nightmare tickled the back of his mind, preoccupying his thoughts whenever there was a pause in activity. It seemed so terribly vivid and real. What has that feeling been, so ripping and shredding? He vaguely remembered a yellow light, a source of another brightness and his nonexistent eyes stinging.

Further adding to his odd day, he kept feeling a dreadful sense of deja vu. Organizing soup cans? Deja vu. Praying? Deja vu. Straightening a cutout that had fallen? Deja vu. Cussing like a sailor after messing up a song on the piano, forgetting he didn't have ten fingers anymore? ...deja vu.

Truly, he felt this day would be weird.

He went on nonetheless. He'd been right, and the feeling came to a climax when he sensed it. An intruder, setting off every alarm bell in his system. A new thrum in the studio. Someone had fallen. Crashing from the upper levels, landing in one of his ritual rooms. He'd turned on the ink machine.

And, seeing this as a sign, he prepared to sacrifice. His Lord would be so pleased to have something other than intruding searchers tied up for the taking! How amazing! He couldn't help but grin.

It wasn't until he'd finished gathering rope did he remember something.

Jack Fain! Yes, he could let his excitement out using the odd swollen searcher that sat in the sewers. It was a dreadful place, but Jack liked how nothing else roamed there.

He just realized he hadn't seen him at all that day, in fact. Sammy made his way down to the sewers to rant. He'd surely be delighted! Maybe he could join him? Jack had never bore witness to a sacrifice before- it often scared him. But the sheep was quiet and old. Maybe his Lord would smile upon his friend and forgive him for not understanding his holiness.

He stopped just before the sewers. He didn't know why he'd stopped. He had been at a brisk stride moments before. His smile faded. A creeping dread rose deep with him, making his head throb.

_He's dead._

Where had that thought come from? That- that was uncalled for! Jack was the most skittish creature in the studio. Sometimes, he was scared of Sammy himself if he barged in too quickly. He was fine. Sammy was just shaken from the nightmare, that was all.

But the thought persisted, so sure of itself. _Jack Fain is dead, crushed and sent into the well. Only his hat was left behind. I'm going to find his hat and nothing else._

Sammy pushed on, until he saw the boards that blocked the sewers. Or, where they should've been.

They'd been hacked to bits.

A panic rose in his chest. "Jack?" Then, louder, getting shaky, "JACK?" He ran.

Even as he skidded along the thin edge of dry floor between the wall and inky stream, he knew what he'd find. His heart was pounding and still, a small part of him insisted that his dear friend wasn't dead, that he would be sitting where he always was. It was a hollow hope. The festering, twisting deja vu returned, making him feel ill.

There, beside a fallen crate, sat Jack Fain's hat.

And Sammy found that, while horrified, he wasn't surprised. And that only twisted him up inside more. He made a sound that might've been a cry.

Jack loved the quiet. He thrived in it, sitting in the same spot for hours, playing with the valve he had on him. And something had happened, and now he was part of the ink, stretched thin in the well, surrounding by movement and screaming and crying.

Numb, he stepped further into the room. He gingerly picked up the hat. The valve was gone.

Jack would come back.

_He doesn't._

He was timid and feeble-minded. He felt sick thinking ill of him, but it was true. Jack was fragile and it was a miracle he had been alive at all. The well would destroy him.

Still, he clutched his hat in his hands. He would have to hope. He had to hold faith that the lyricist would return soon. He'd have his hat. Yes, he'd keep it for when he came back. He would just have to wait. He wouldn't cry, despite how he trembled and wished he could find it in himself to react.

Sammy returned to his tasks.

He prayed for a long time. He sat before a Bendy cutout and practically begged that his Lord let Jack return soon, safe and sane. He prayed his sacrifice would please him.

A voice, a thought, sitting in the back of his mind murmured otherwise.

He'd followed his faith for so long. He'd held undying, unquestioning loyalty towards Bendy for so long. It had never wavered, not once been questioned. That was the thing about some faiths- questions and doubt shattered it. And he questioned if Bendy would be merciful to his prophet's closest friend.

He felt rotten for starting to doubt it now. How dare he question Bendy? The Ink Demon was all he'd bowed to for...for years! He believed one day he'd be freed! He just needed to believe, to love! Love required sacrifice! If that were true, though...

...why did he feel more and more unsure as he captured the sheep?

The sheep was... It made him angry. It filled him with a dread, an envy, a fear. Just looking at it filled him with so many emotions, none good.

He envied him for a simple reason- he missed having skin. Having a face. Fingers. Feet. He missed being _human_. Every other twisting, knotting thought was much more difficult to pick apart.

His thoughts were shaken as the man began waking up. Knocking him out, dragging him, and trying him up had all been a blur. And now, suddenly, it was happening. Suddenly, it was neigh time for sacrifice. For faith.

Sammy said nothing. There was a thick static in the air. An electric feeling that could only mean bad things to come. He stared down his sheep-

_Henry Stein-_

"Henry?" It was only one word, and yet that was all it took. One chip in a fragile dam in his mind. The dam began to leak. A trickle of memories coming from a vast sea.

_Henry Stein. The cartoonist. He's going to escape. Failure. Roaring, perceived anger; a misunderstanding? No._

_Intentional, it's all intentional. Glee, a sick glee as claws-_

_It's going to hurt and there's nothing I can do about it._

_The demon, he_

_will_

_hurt_

_me_

_again_

_and_

_again-_

Everything was too bright. The ink glistened too much. The lights were too bright. Contrasted everything else too strongly. He nearly blacked out.

His legs buckled and he barely held himself up on a support beam, his breath getting stuck in his throat. There was a rip in the dusty studio air, a _crack_ of something breaking. Of something being genuinely affected, of something being pushed last the point of no return.

Doubled over, panting, he clutched at his chest. His head hurt so much. It was dizzying.

Sheep forgotten, Sammy stumbled into a separate room. He nearly tripped over himself in his disoriented fleeing. He had to get out. He had to run, to escape before-

A heartbeat.

Quiet but familiar. Instinct nearly took over and Sammy resisted the urge to fall to his knees and beg. For what, he didn't know.

The thumping grew louder. The walls of the room grew black and dripped with ink. He reached towards it, already willing himself to go _through_ it, to get out before his god found him.

He'd get torn apart. He knew it now, he knew it was too late, but he was desperate to try anyways. He's seen what Bendy could do. He's seen-

_The Projectionist._

The dam splintered.

He fell, clutching his head. Violent convulsions ripped through his body, which destabilized with Bendy's inky aura. In some faraway time, he'd been in euphoric awe at how powerful the demon was, to make him weak just with his presence. Now, it terrified him. He felt his own ink drip down his arms and back, splattering onto the wood below.

"No, no, no-" _A discovery. A projector spurting ink on the floor. Vacant curiosity. A body spat up, rejected by the well, heartless yet still warm. Broken and yet still fixable. A body with life re-breathed into it. Clicking. Static. A bright, blinding yellow light. Confidence wavered. Confusion. A vague, mutual understanding._

_Burning pain. Waking up._

He was crying. When had he begun crying? Or was he dripping that much, his ink sticking to his mask and dripping into his mouth?

Claws dug into his back, raking into his shoulders. Oh how he did _scream_ , his racing thoughts disrupted and skewed by white hot pain.

Sammy tried to reason. He desperately, desperately tried. He knew what was soon to happen and he was desperate to avoid it. "M-my Lord, I-" he was flattened, heavy hands pushing him into his chest. He tried to claw his way up on reflex, part of him ashamed for trying to stop his god. "N-no! No, _stop_ , stop it, please-" something dug into his arm and raked it to shreds, strings of ink dripping from the demon's claws as it flexed them, still embedded in him.

" _Not again_!" The echo of lifetimes lived returned, pain felt a hundred times over layering thickly over his broken body. How many times? How many times has his god decided to maul him? So, so many times he's screamed and begged. Not again. He couldn't take it again.

A pause. That had to be good, right? Sammy could barely think. He didn't dare move- he couldn't, even if he wanted to. His voice came out in sharp, sparse breaths "I'm sorry! Wh-whatever you want, I- I'll do it, my Lord! I'll do whatever you wish, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

For what? Not being a good prophet? For not leading the searchers to his dark light? For not providing adequate sacrifices?

"Whatever I did wrong, I'm- I'm sorry!"

Bendy peered down at his prophet, claws still lodged in his arm. And, with one solid kick, Sammy was splattered into the ground. He stopped speaking and just gasped for air he didn't truly need.

The cycle rippled. This was not normal.

Sammy was always spared. He was always left just alive enough to not be sucked into the well. Always left to pull himself together.

But he had meddled with things he shouldn't meddle with. The Ink Demon struck him again, again, and again. Over and over, it tore and ripped and snarled at him.

Outside of the room, the sacrifice was terrified. He could only sit there, tied up, and watch. The door was open. He could see ink splattering the walls. He couldn't see Sammy entirely, but he could see Bendy kneeling over him.

With every blow, the prophet would make an awful, choked cry. He sounded like he was trying to cry but his own ink kept choking him. His legs would jolt and spasm. He twitched as claws dug into his shoulder. Henry could only barely make out what he was witnessing. Sammy's body was like hot wax, falling apart and moldable.

There was a grotesque, wet noise, and then silence. The demon pulled back, growling, and something in its hands. An old, worn mask mimicking a grinning face and pie-cut eyes splintered, hanging limp from its hands. Thick ink that was once a head spilled between it's fingers. Sammy was still.

And with one final shudder, what remained if Sammy was taken by the well.

* * *

Something was wrong.

Norman knew this, in his own, disjointed way. He knew this, even as he reached towards the box his horrid intruder hid in. He just _knew_ something was up.

Even when the Ink Demon punched him, he knew something was different. He was missing something. He missed many things, but he had lost grip on something important. A face, horribly familiar but new? A past, blurry and dim?

_I'm gonna die._

He refused to listen to the little, nagging thought that had faded into his perpetually scrambled mind. He hit back with the same vigor he hit anything. The demon fought back. It should've felt like a first. Nothing else had ever matched him in brute strength. But he...he was not as surprised as he should've been. He still snapped and screamed like a looping reel.

It didn't last long. He knew it wouldn't, but he tried anyways. He filtered his hate into volume, his head ringing with a festering, squirming feeling that threatened to spill over.

_He's gonna to rip my head off._

But that didn't happen.

He felt it. He ducked when, he knew, he should've been caught. It made the Ink Demon jerk back in what he thought was surprise. Something had changed. He _felt_ it. The shift in the air. A spark running through his wires.

And then he felt nothing at all.

In the Miracle Station, Henry could only watch as something changed. He could only sit in the safety of his box as the Projectionist's head was bashed into the wall. He got a good view.

Bendy held him by the wires, ripping then out before slamming the now lightless projector into the wall again. The bulb shattered- he could _hear_ it pop. The projector dented under the Demon's pressure.

Again and again, Norman was slammed into the wall. Machinery bent and broke. Wires snapped. The equivalent of brain matter was splattered against the wood, spurting from cracks opening in the projector's paneling.

When his head was nothing but a mess of thick ink and metal and wires, Bendy ripped him apart.

First his head. It came off with a splintering _crack_ , splintering apart in the Ink Demon's hands. Limb from limb, the remains of Norman Polk were ripped apart. Inside and out, he was held together by metal and winding wires. Those wires were pulled out. His speaker was dug up and crushed. The insides of his chest and stomach were thrown out, splattering the room. They might've once been organs. Now, it was purposeless ink intertwined with bits of supporting metal and thin, ink-clogged wiring.

 _Finally_ , the corpse began to dissolve and melt. The well did not like it, but it consumed him nonetheless.

Satisfied, hopefully, Bendy stood. He simply looked at Henry once, his grin as full of fake emotion as it always was. Just a glance, before he limped back to where he came from.

With that, the cycle somewhat got back on track. It would function just fine with Norman a little more dead than he usually was. And this cycle, he'd stay dead. Sammy was not important, not if he'd remembered _things_. Hopefully, he would learn his lesson next cycle. Hopefully he didn't remember it at all.

Henry was left absolutely terrified.


	9. The Prophet finds the Angel

Sammy Lawrence had rarely bothered exploring the depths of the studio. He had all he could ever want in the upper levels. He had a sanctuary, plenty of instruments, and lots of cutouts to look after.

But he, like anything else that breathed and felt, was curious. While content with what his Lord had given him, it couldn't hurt to wander off and see what secrets the lower stories held.

So he took an axe and stepped through the ink without a destination in mind.

He was spat out in a grand room. It felt familiar, but how could it be? He felt like having what looked like a toy store under all this seemed impractical.

" _Oh... Oh, what the hell is- who are you?_ "

A voice from above, sweet yet dark. He's heard it before but he didn't know from where. Sammy looked up and all around. There were many places a voice could come from. Lots of balconies and corners one could hide in. But he saw nobody. "Who's there? My sincerest apologies for intruding."

" _Answer my question, and I'll answer yours._ "

That seemed fair. He tilted his masked face skywards where the voice came from and said, "I am the loyal Prophet of the Ink Demon's. Are you aware of our Lord and his word?"

There was a pause. Sammy decided that meant the voice was indeed blind to the truth, and that he should go on. "Bendy. I may tell you of his power, if you-"

" _No, no. I..._ " Another pause. " _Was not expecting that answer. Of all things. Well!_ " A chuckle. " _Dear Prophet, I am an angel!_ " Her voice became sweeter and light towards the end. Someone else's.

An angel? He wondered if she was affiliated with Bendy. Or opposed to him. He's never heard of an angel before in the context of his faith. Interesting.

" _Do you wish to...preach to me, then?_ " That same pretty, _angelic_ tone.

A possible fellow follower? Nobody had ever wanted to listen to him before. As much as he cherished Jack's company, he didn't exactly talk or respond to his teachings. The thought of someone willing to listen to him and the word of the Ink Demon...it thrilled him.

"I'd be more than happy to!" Sammy smiled best his face allowed under his mask. He didn't know where to begin. How the Ink Demon showed himself? How it all began? How Sammy became his prophet? Salvation? So many things to talk about!

" _But first, I think it's best we meet face to...mask. You see that elevator? Get in, and I'll bring you up to me._ " Her voice was smooth as honey.

He nodded. Indeed, there was an elevator snug in the room's corner. He headed towards it, a noticeable bounce in his step. He should've done this much earlier!

He stepped inside, and was impressed when the gates shut automatically behind him. Old machinery started up with a rattle, dull lights flashing on. Could the angel control it remotely? In a sense, she was a little god herself over this realm.

" _The Ink Demon and I go way back, Prophet._ " The angel hummed, back to her rougher voice now. The elevator began to descend.

"You do?" Sammy leaned against the corner, looking up. Didn't she say she was bringing him up? He didn't mention it.

" _Yes! I suppose that conversation should wait until our date, though. Hee hee!_ " her voice turned high-pitched again at the odd, almost cartoony laugh. The elevator rattled to a stop. She said nothing when the doors opened.

It was dark. Very dark. Even as Sammy stepped out, he could barely make out the corners of the room. He had imagined an angel's home to be...brighter.

Beyond him was a hall. The room only had one exit. Sammy descended the stairs, a little unnerved when he stepped into ink. Perhaps just a safety precaution. Searchers hated deep ink. He wasn't a searcher, but he admittedly hated stepping in ink, too. But he could endure it, if it meant company.

The hall was short, and what sat at its end quickly enraptured his interest. A giant statue of Bendy.

Suddenly much more willing to wade through ink, he approached the glorious thing. It was taller than he was, made of stone and in rather good shape. He's seen a few statues before. They'd all been small, a little shorter than him. This was twice his height!

In awe, he didn't realize he'd dropped his axe. He could only stare up at it, overwhelmed in more than one sense.

The clicking of distant projectors became background noise. The grandness of standing before the likeness of his Lord had Sammy nailed to the spot.

That was, until his nonexistent eardrums burst, thanks to the loudest thing he's heard in a long time. A scream, harsh and sharp, and them pale light washed over him. The statue cast an ominous shadow now, looming over him.

He looked at what made that hellish noise to see an equally as hellish being, almost instantly blinding him with its light. It ran at him in a mad bull run, raised its fist, and slammed Sammy into the wall.

He heard the angel laughing, even as his ears rang. Vision blurred from how bright everything suddenly was, he was only somewhat aware of the walking projector getting ready to finish the job.

Snapped out of his stupor, he pressed himself against the wall. His own ink splattered against it, forming a portal on the spot. _Home_ , he thought, letting himself fall into it. _Just get me away from this thing._

He fell facedown into his sanctuary and vowed, in that moment, to never trust an angel ever again.


	10. Charades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A theme park comes to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Severe dissociation

The amusement park sat empty. Motionless. Nothing had entered it in months, maybe years. The dust had long since settled. The attractions remained still and locked up.

And then, something moved.

The Bendy animatronic that lay across a work table jerked to life. It spasmed, thick metal fingers grasping the edges of the table. It splintered the wood. It sounded like it had awful congestion when it gasped and sputtered. Internal mechanisms whirred to life with groans and sputters.

It shot up. Creaky joints clinked together. Wires stuff with age pinched and pulled between its arm and shoulder, working to keep it from falling back over. Sensation shot through its legs, built to mimic rubberhose logic, tensed and stretched awkwardly. They didn't work well with what its very human mind wanted. None of it did.

Its limbs groaned as it slid off of the table, legs wobbling. It was built to bend, to spin and dance-

This was not her body.

She tried to scream, but nothing of the sort came out. She could only grip the table, hunched and staring at what were not her hands. Her mind raced to comprehend what she was, how this had happened, and why, but thoughts tumbled and snowballed until nothing in her head made sense anymore.

So she grasped a smaller question. One that could be answered easily, that _should_ be answered easily.

Where was she?

Many-jointed legs stiff with misuse, she could only throw herself to the wall and use it to keep from toppling over. The insides of body were hot, scalding hot, and yet it was so, so cold on the outside. She wondered if she was dead and this was hell. Her own personal hell. To become the thing she feared and hated with all her heart. A heart that she couldn't hear beating anymore.

She stumbled out of the room. Each step she forced the leges to take was more sure than the last as her tired mind adjusted to having noodles for legs. She tried to cry out. To call for help. But the body she inhabited wasn't built with a way to speak.

She raised a shaky hand and traced the grin upon her face. It didn't match how she felt. That's what she always hated about the damn robot- the flat smile and eyes with nothing behind them. The urge to rip the plating off just to feel some level on control was nearly overwhelming.

Eventually, she stood before a looming sign. Bendy Land. Old, rusted, and ink-stained, but it was her workplace nonetheless.

One question down. Many more to go. She couldn't remember much. She worked here, under Bertrum's-

 _Bertrum_.

Her boss. Where was he? He had to be around here. He had to be. As lifeless as the place was, she could only hope he was somehow here. So she stumbled on in search of him. Anyone would be a welcome anchor to where she was and what was going on.

Eventually she came across one particular room. Bertrum's latest addition to the park sat in the center. A many armed ride that spun around and around- she couldn't remember what it was called.

An audio log sat on a nearby desk. It might hold answers, she hoped. She pressed play, leaning against the table. She couldn't quite feel her body. She knew her legs moved and she felt her steps reverberating up into her torso, but it didn't feel like _her_ body. Because it wasn't.

Bertrum's voice took her mind off of the fever dream of her new reality. He was talking about how Joey stole his work. She found the topic familiar. Was she around when that happened? Her sense of time was muddled.

"...you may think I'm gone-" the ride in front of her began to move. She stepped back, looking up at the monstrous machine as lights turned on and metal arms lifted. Bertrum sounded absolutely pissed, at a level she's never heard before.

"-BUT I'M STILL HEEEERE!"

One of the arms raised, but she could only tilt the robot's head at the center of the machine to stare, completely dumbfounded. Because right there in a newly opened window sat the oversized head of Bertrum Piedmont.

The ride stopped whirling and froze. Much to her terror, the lightless eyes of her friend and boss _moved_ and met hers. Did the paint on the new face forced upon her even count as eyes?

Somehow, the long dead-looking face of Bertrum looked dumbstruck at the sight of her. He simply...stared. He looked as lifeless as she imagined the animatronic's own face looked right then.

Backing up again a wall, she tried to speak once more. She tried to tell him her name, to demand what the hell happened to them. But still, she couldn't speak.

One of the ride's arms lifted, and she panicked. He could crush her like a bug. As she pressed against a wall, a hand bumped into something. An ink well. An idea popped into her head.

Quickly, she dipped a finger into the well and wrote her name on the wall in fat, dripping letters.

_I AM LACIE!_

The ride's arm lowered. Bertrum's eyes flickered over her, swollen lips unmoving. She looked away from him, and while her mind wanted her to gag at the sight, the cursed body she had didn't respond.

Shuddering, she dipped the animatronic's index back into the well and wrote again.

_BERTRUM?_

One of the arms jerked to life, rising up. Then, after hanging in the air for a second, it dropped with a clang. It repeated the motion. A nod, presumably. She felt sick. What was going on? Was she dead? Dreaming?

As soon as her the vague hope crossed her mind, she raised the robot's fist and punched herself in the chest.

She stumbled, terrified at the strength the thing had. She was still conscious. Still in a body not her own. Helpless, she wrote again.

_KNOW WHAT HAPPENED?_

The arms of the machine raised and folded, then spun. Even as paneling slid over Bertrum's face, his head didn't move. He simply stared. Lacie assumed that was a solid no.

With that, she collapsed. Or rather, the animatronic collapsed, and she was left to watch. Her gaze became fixated on the ceiling- the thought of looking at herself filled her with disgust.

She heard Bertrum resume moving. His joints creaked and groaned. With what sounded like great effort, she looked down to see one of the mechanical arms had stretched out. The corner of one cart was pressed against a foot not her own.

A shudder ran through Lacie's mind and through the body that she hated so dearly. A glance up saw Bertrum still staring, but his face was contorted into a vague shadow of sympathy. That was what finally made her decide to not ask questions, because there was no point. No point in trying to communicate with Bertrum with gestures and writing. They were both lost, turned into monsters.

With great effort, her conscious trying to tear itself from its vessel, she slumped atop a cart and wrapped unfamiliar arms around it. She pressed her new, _horrible_ face against the metal and shivered. It was cold. But it was comfort.

She sat there for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, my take on post-ink machine Lacie! Poor lass got fnaf-ed! I didn't expect her to be so fun to write.


	11. Cameraman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ink Demonth sucked the soul from my body and now I can't finish 90% of the things I start, so take this purgatory featuring Cameraman from the crack up comics because I care for him deeply

Something was in the halls with the Projectionist. He knew it. Foreign steps reverberated through ink and he felt he was being watched. But no matter where he looked, turning around and looking at every corner in his halls, he could find anything amiss. Even when it felt like something was behind him.

It drove him nuts. Rarely had anything inconvenienced him more than a minute, distracting him from his cycle of work and hiding from his building wrath.

He was almost glad to see the ink move. It wasn't the same type of movement the unseen intruder sent through the ink, but he took out his anger on it nonetheless. He stomped down on it as a half-formed arm reached out and clawed at him. Its other arm lashed out and grabbed something under him unseen.

Something latched onto his other leg. Looking down properly for the first time in what might've been years, he nearly toppled over. Stumbling over his weighted head and the grabbing at his legs, he almost trampled the thing clinging to him.

It almost looked like him.

What he imagined he looked like, anyways. It had a camera for a face and barely came up to his knee. The ink stilled as it shook the slime off its thin arms. Its shiny black lens glinted in his light.

He grabbed it by the neck and yanked it off the ground. _This_ was the little rat bothering him, driving him to paranoia! Tightening his hold around its durable little body, he prepared to rip it apart, to enact his revenge for causing him so much fretting.

....

But he never hit it.

Why wasn't he hitting it? Ripping it apart limb from limb? He was mad! He was angry! Why wasn't he acting on it?!

The him-but-not-him was shaking like a leaf in his hands. It squirmed and kicked, pawing at his arms with soft, gloved hands. It wasn't hostile... In fact, it... It was a camera. A piece of machinery.

It was his job to look after it, right?

He was the Projectionist. It was a camera, but close enough, he knew how cameras worked. Didn't he? He had to. It was his job.

What was it doing out in the halls? Tucking the struggling creature against his chest, he carried it away. It wasn't safe, so close to the ink. Didn't it know how dangerous it was? Oh well. It didn't, so he'd have to keep watch on it.

It stopped struggling against him. As he turned a corner, it actually pressed closer and got comfortable. Paying no mind to it settling down, he plopped it down on a chair.

At first, it tried to get off. He held it down by the shoulders, looking into its odd face until it held still. He pulled his hands back, and it sat there. Good! Now it was safe, away from the potential dangers of being so close to the ink.

Not even five seconds after turning away to return to his task, small arms wrapped around his leg. He had things to do, projectors to check on and hallways to patrol! Didn't it understand that?

He lifted it up by the shoulders, and this time it didn't struggle. It stretched out its hands up towards him and made a grabby motion.

He set it back on the chair, where it belonged.

Once more, he pressed it down and stared at it, ensuring it would stay there. Once more, he let it go, and it looked up at him with that soulful lens that had absolutely nothing but cobwebs and disobedience behind it. Once more, he turned around to resume his patrol.

Once more, it latched to his leg.

Making a noise similar to a groan, he lifted it up. It clung to his hands and was happy to be pressed into his arms again. The troublesome creature wiggled in what he assumed was joy at his suffering.

Troublesome or not, it was his duty to take care of it and keep it from breaking itself. He went on with his routine as he usually did, keeping the camera creature in his arms. Thankfully it had settled down and nestled itself in the crook of his elbow.

Soon he was back to patrolling. Each projector was examined and, eventually, seemed to be in fine working order. He didn't know how he'd fix one with the mini-him tucked under one arm.

His comforting rhythm was back, and he forgot he was even holding the thing. Focusing on sloshing through ink, looking over every projector he passed by...it was such a calming lull that filled his mind and didn't leave room for extra thought. Just focus on the projector he was at and look forwards to the next. Take in the wooden walls and the way his light bounced off of ink, and feel the new weight nestled against him...

Another one. Another camera creature. Moving, messing with the projector, jumping when his light turned to it, jarring him out of his trance.

He reached out to grab it, only to drop the one he'd been holding. The forgotten one faceplanted into the ink, much to his alarm, while the second one scrambled off the table and tried escaping.

Too many things to keep track off. Should he pick up the first or chase the second? Maybe he should check on the projector to ensure it wasn't broken. His legs stayed locked in place, his arms stiff, and a headache creeping up on him. His head felt hot and stuffy as machinery whirred faster, faster, trying to keep track of everything.

He stood there, fried, for several minutes. The only thing alerting him to the outside was a brief touch to his leg, before it left him to stew in decisions.

Then the camera stepped back into his light, perfectly fine, and he shuddered before getting back to the most urgent task. He walked past it. The projector seemed fine, and just needed to be straightened.

When he turned back around, however, there were three...things.

Had there always been three? There was...one. The one in his arms. Another by the projector he'd just fixed, or- were they the same being? Where had the third one come from?

The first of the damned creatures stepped towards him. It had a smear of ink on its lens- so the one he'd dropped, then. Bouncing in place, it raised its arms up to him. He picked it up, and soon the second one followed suit.

Much to his distress, though, he couldn't carry the third one, which wrapped a small hand around one of his many wires. He looked between the two in his arms and silently wished he could carry the third. They weren't even that heavy, and he didn't want the new third to be left behind! How else would he keep an eye on it? These things multiplied like it was nobody's business, he couldn't possibly let it out of his sight!

It just looked up at him with that lens, little gloved hand latched to a wire. Could it understand the issue he was having? Maybe it was trying to show it wasn't going to run off.

With great reluctance, he resumed his eternal tread through the halls. It followed.


	12. The Well of Voices: a very bad place to take a nap on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One has to be careful where they fall asleep in Joey Drew Studios.

_It was a buzzing, screaming well of voices. They cried and sobbed together. Their dreams meshed into their waking lives. Did they even dream, or was it fantasy in an attempt to escape their hellish lives? Was there even a difference between their waking hours and unconsciousness? Proper sleep was impossible, in the cacophony of yelling and crying, but they were all so tired, so exhausted. They weren't awake anymore, or at least fully conscious and sane, trapped in the pit of their own suffering and fantasies of freedom._

_He could feel their minds pulling at his own. Memories that weren't his own flooded him, choking him, drowning him. He was running through the halls, he was drawing, he had a pair of hands wrapped around his throat._

_They dragged him down, down deeper into the well, threatening to snap the tether to reality he hung by. He could barely feel his own body, being pulling apart by the seams by gnashing teeth and tugging nails. He wasn't himself. He was playing a violin, he was running, he was trying to get a lift working but the gates weren't shutting fast enough-_

_The tether pulled taut, straining down, down, and his grip on it began to slip. Vaguely defined hands pulled at him, tearing at the edges of his sanity, while, the purgatory's choir called out to him, begging, begging to be set free, to join them, to kill them._

_A voice rang out clear amid the chaos, fuzzy and confused and familiar. It was so close, right against him, and it yanked him back up. "You need to get out of here, Sammy!" It- he- sounded panicked. His confusion and fear bled into his own mind, only amplifying the terror he was already feeling-_

Jack was shaking him. He was moving quickly for once, shoving him and dragging him somewhere. He sounded panicked.

_They pulled harder. Hands dug into his arms- he had arms?- and tore through them. His legs were enraptured, and he almost couldn't feel them. He couldn't move. His arms were pinned. His very soul was under fire, threatening to chip away. Their nightmares bled into him. Running, screaming, black ink swallowed him, a fatal misstep that sealed his fate, the floor gave out under him, bright red spilled from a gash in his throat, and yet he still screamed._

_Again, the voice pulled him away from the amalgamation of souls, scared and worried. "Wake up. Wake up! Don't let it get you!" The thoughts of the voice bled into his own. Concern that he'd be dragged in. Worry about what would happen if he was._

He was pushed against something hard, and no longer was he laying in ink, in a sea of voices and memories. The ink still clung to his arms, tugging, begging for him to join them.

_"Wake up!" Wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up_

And Sammy finally did.

Gasping, he could see what was really in front of him again. He was on his back, and rough wood was digging into him. He was dripping, his suspenders felt slack and loose around his crumbling body, and his hands were barely holding themselves together. His mask slipped off, and he couldn't muster the strength to put it back on. Ink still pulled at his legs, but the tug was weaker now. The voices and sensations were a trickle, compared to the drowning flood before.

Jack leaned over him, hat askew. Making a worried sound, he shook him again. "I..." His throat felt like it had collapsed, and it took him a moment to get a hold on himself. "I'm fine. Thank you. I'm okay."

The lyricist scoffed. He swatted away the ink still clinging to him with clumsy movements, ushering Sammy further into the pallette. He noticed the box that usually sat atop the wooden platform was pushed off.

The last of the voices quieted. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he looked over the flooded boiler room. The ink was still. The quiet was so peaceful. No voices, no intrusive thoughts... It was truly an underrated thing. After what felt like hours in the screaming, it was blessed. "I fell asleep here, didn't I?"

Nodding, Jack splayed himself beside him, glaring at the ink as if it had personally wronged him. "It's alright. I'm fine now. Again, thank you. Of you'd not pulling me out, I...." He didn't want to think about that. "I best be on my way. There's no telling how long I've been out." Truthfully, he didn't want to spend another second there, so close to the ink.

He stood slowly, shakily, and he still hadn't quite gotten a hold on himself yet. His heart felt like it would burst from his chest at the slightest inconvenience. He straightened his mask and silently willed his arms to stop falling apart, though his trembling limbs didn't listen. His legs shook as he stepped into the shallow ink. Now that he was awake and alert, the siren's song was quieter and easier to ignore. It was still there, though. A whisper.

Jack stayed by his side as he shuffled out of the damned sewers. His heart still beat rabbit-quick, thumping in his head in a way reminiscent of his Lord's heartbeat. It was soothing, in a way, and with Jack popping in and out of the ink by his side, he felt comforted. Cared for.

They stopped at the edge of the sewers. Solid, dry ground was a relief. His mind was quiet yet again, and his thoughts were his own. "I'll... see you later, I suppose." Jack bobbed his head in a nod, his usually frowning face contorting into a worried expression. "Don't worry. I'll stay out of the ink until I... _recover_."

He grumbled more, and Sammy pat his shoulder. "You have my word. I'll be careful. I truthfully have no clue how you can stand it." Jack had more willpower than him, in that regard. He supposed swollen searchers needed it, to be sliding through the ink like a fish in water.

"...were you that voice?" He knew the voice had been familiar. It was Jack Fain's voice, alright. It just clicked after some thought. Even years since he's spoken coherently, he remembered it.

As if it was no big deal, Jack nodded. "So you _can_ speak, albeit...not very conveniently. Hm. Don't expect me to dunk my head into the ink for a proper conversation, though." He let out a snort of laughter, and Sammy swatted at him with a huff. "I have work to do. Do take care, Jack, alright?"

His friend nodded again, and they bid each other farewell for the time being. He felt better already. The imprint still stung, and he chose not to dwell on it for too long. He'd be fine as long as he didn't get hit by a burst pipe or have to step foot in more deep ink. He'd manage.

He simply had to take his mind off of things. Yes. That sounded like just what he needed.

He had work to do, prophet business to get to, anyways.


	13. A Thousand Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason Sammy doesn't venture into the studio's deeper levels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one today, while I'm dealing with writer's block. Thank you for your comments; I read them all, even if I don't respond to them much. They mean a lot!

The studio was a web. Sprawling, branching out, with the ink machine at its center. Sammy wanted to see it. That was why he'd ventured down to begin with. Surely his Lord would appreciate him so close!

That's what he kept telling himself. Each time he dove into the puddles to move deeper, there were more voices. The well was deeper, more clustered. It was no longer easy to use the ink as an expressway. It took effort to not be led astray. But he'd endure, like a good prophet. His Lord was just testing him.

"Well, this is quite nightmarish," he said aloud, as he stepped out of the ink and into the room of a madman.

Insane writings covered the wall. Numbers and finances. Over $40,000 in dept. _Don't tell Joey_ , one line read. Welcoming.

Taking care of where he stepped, avoiding the papers scattering the floor, he picked up an ink-splattered audio log sitting atop a desk. Listening on any he came across on the way down was a little treat. Plus, some insight on whoever had once worked in the room would be nice. A strip of tape on the side had a name written in pen ink upon it. " _Grant Cohen_ , hm...? Did you write all this, I wonder..."

The writings unnerved him. He _knew_ what desperation looked like when thrown at the walls. It looked messy and frantic and the ink dripping off the sloppy letters only added to the madness. It frightened him how much the scribbles reminded him of his own preachings. Full of an almost animalistic emotion, raw and uncaged.

He found himself hesitating. Fighting down the urge to just leave, he pressed play. There was nothing to be nervous of. He wasn't going to let a bit of mad writing get to-

A low, pained moan came from the audio log.

Heavy panting and crying filled the room, and even Sammy was put off by it. The seconds dragged on, and whatever poor soul was dying on record had a very long, drawn-out fate. It sounded like they were choking on ink, struggling to speak, perhaps to call for help.

Carefully setting the log back down when the pained noises came to an end, he turned to return to the ink once more. His heart was in his throat, beating so hard it made him just a tad nauseous. "Well, that was... truly unnerving-"

The ink was moving.

To say Sammy screamed would be an understatement. He threw himself onto the chair, scrambling to stand atop it as the ground became flooded with quick, slithering ink. The letters dribbled down the walls, melting right off and pooling onto the ground. Unsent paychecks and tax forums became soaked through and stuck to the ink like glue. It began to rise and condense, solidifying in a mess of ink and paper.

Much to his unbridled horror, the thing forming on the ground sobbed.

He reached behind himself blindly and grabbed the damned audio log. The ink that once spelt _Grant Cohen_ slipped off as well, splattering to the ground and snaking towards the growing mass. "Get _back_!"

The ink shifted and lurched, and two thin arms tried to stretch out, grabbing at him. The noise it made when he threw the log at it was horrid- a wet squish followed by another groan. The arms were sucked back into its mass with a moist squelch.

The audio log was crushed in its writhing form, splintering apart and getting absorbed into the thing. Its arms reached out once more, lacking proper joints and instead moving and stretching like a rubberhose cartoon. It threw itself not at him, but instead it lurched past him.

Using old drawers as leverage, it smashed into the vent as if it were a battering ram. The cover dented inwards and became caked with ink, loose ink splattering to the floor and surrounding walls from the sheer force of it. He backed up as best he could without toppling over and could only stare as it pried the vent cover off and discarded the warped sheet of metal.

It sounded like it was in pain, even as it pressed into the darkness and vanished. He heard it squishing and crinkling through, and its labored breathing echoed down the chute long enough to surely become engrained in his mind.

"..." He stared at the pitch black, endless vents for a long moment. After several seconds ticked by, he began to calm down and stepped off the chair. "Maybe... that was a sign," he whispered, purely to himself, purely to ensure he could still speak.

Yeah. He'll happily take that as a sign he wasn't supposed to be there. Suddenly he wanted to go back to his band room very, very badly.

With that effectively haunting him, he left the room to find a new ink puddle and begin his trek back home.


	14. Searcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jack finally pulled himself up from the well, he found himself alone.

Jack pulled himself out of the well with gasping, sobbing breaths. Heaving, he plunged his hands into the ink around him, grasping for any purchase or stability.

Where was he?

He blinked a few times, shaking his head to clear the last of the well's tug, and looked around. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. His ragged breaths softened and his arms stopped trembling.

He was in the sewers, just where he'd died in. He sat in front of an old office. _His_ old office, he reminded himself. The well always muddled his memories, so he took a moment to focus.

His name was Jack. Jack Fain. He was someone who wrote lyrics- a lyricist, yes. And he liked the quiet, yes. He had a bowler hat...

Where was his hat? He should probably find his hat. It had been so long since he'd been sent into the well of voices. It'd be a shame to loose it now...

Making his way down the inky river, he looked for his death site. How had he...- Oh. There had been a man. Right. A human man with his hands drenched in the ink of his victims. He'd... he had pulled a lever and dropped the box in the boiler room and...

He no longer wanted to think about it. So he focused on looking for his hat. The crate was still lowered, splattered with ink, and he realized his valve was missing. The man must've stolen it.

But his hat was still there! Relief flooded him as he grabbed it. It was a little inky, but it wasn't torn or otherwise damaged. Feeling much calmer about the whole dying situation, he put it on. Suddenly it was as if nothing had happened.

He couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been out. Maybe he should check on Sammy. Right, Sammy! He was probably worried. It had been a while since he'd gotten offed, and there was no telling how long he'd been gone.

Into the ink he went. His own thick ink insulated him from the voices, and made traveling through the ink easy. It sounded like there were more voices than before. He elected to ignore it, and surfaced in the band hall.

It was empty.

Sammy's sanctuary was empty.

The recording booths were empty.

...the music department wasn't that big, was it? Even if it was bigger than he remembered, shouldn't there be others...?

With no voice, he couldn't call out. Had the hall always been so quiet? It hadn't been, had it? There were always the murmurs of searchers of Sammy giving a sermon or music playing giving the department noise. The department being quiet was... unnatural.

Something was wrong.

Suddenly nervous, Jack left the halls and went towards the staircase. It was no longer flooded. The man who killed him must've used his valve.

Maybe he could've just asked. Not that Jack would've given it up, but just squashing him with that creepy, neutral face was rather rude.

As Jack looked down the stairs, he pondered if he'd ever descended them. He... Had he? Maybe his memories were still fuzzy. Surely he'd remember once he went downstairs and looked at whatever was below the music department.

Hopefully Sammy was down there. He missed him.

* * *

Going downstairs was a mistake.

It was utter chaos.

What once might've been a toy shop was flooded with searchers. Hostile, confused searchers, who snarled and glared at him. Shelves were overturned and plushies were torn to shreds. It terrified him just looking at it. He was a stranger in their land, and he very quickly descended down further and dove into the ink. The last thing he wanted was to upset them.

Beyond the toy shop was an old storage unit. He moved through it slowly, alert to everything new or loud. Malformed machinery was strewn throughout, and one room with a broken ride smelled of burnt ink and smoke.

Part of him knew he should go back. He didn't recognize anything, and maybe he'd somehow missed Sammy, that's all. But something tugged at him, telling him to keep going, that Sammy was still somewhere to be found. Something was terribly,horribly wrong.

So he continued.

The little railway ride led into a ballroom. He huddled in the doorway and watched. Standing over something were several tall, skeletal beings, with sad glowing eyes. They didn't move. They just stood around the thing on the floor, watching. They didn't acknowledge him.

He inched closer and saw it was a corpse.

Fearing the things were the ones who killed her, he sank into the ink, refusing to look away or let his guard down.

Why would Sammy be down here? It was scary and dangerous, and sure he knew he could handle himself just fine and all, but... A feeling of dread hung over him as he slid around the parameters of the room and past the creatures.

The railway was dark after a certain point. It was a comforting dark, a purgatory between places, sort of like the stairways. His heart was racing, though, and again he considered shortcutting back up to the music department. Maybe he'd wait for Sammy to return. It wasn't completely unheard of for him to leave for a while. But for him to leave and for everyone else to be gone...? That wasn't normal. Something _was_ _not right_ ; he could feel it deep in his heart.

He'd just find Sammy and make sure he was okay. Then he'd yank him into the ink and bring him back home and then they could figure out where everybody went.

Nodding to himself at his plan, he dove deeper. The well was louder, so far down. It made him worried about how they'd get back. Sammy probably couldn't handle the voices like he could.

They'd cross that bridge when they got to it.

When he resurfaced as deep as he dared, dazed, he was in the midst of utter chaos, loud chaos, just like the toy room.

Almost immediately, he was nearly run over by another one of the ink skeletons. They were panicking, shouting, and paid him no mind. Around him were others. Searchers like him were cluttered against each other.

One searcher, who wore a miner helmet, suddenly appeared beside him. They grabbed him by the shoulders and just about scared him to death. He jerked back, letting out an alarmed sound at the touch, and tried shooting back into the ink.

The skeleton was suddenly behind him. "We- we've got another! How many is that? Thirteen now?" They pushed the other searcher away and knelt in front of him. "This one has a bowler hat! Does that match anyone we know?! Oh, oh, dear, are you okay?" They were shaking like a leaf, and when they placed a hand on the side of his face, he saw they were threatening to fall apart. Ink dripped over their eyes, and they kept blinking and rubbing at their face to get it off.

More than a little put off, Jack shrank away from them. He didn't know what happened there and he didn't want to know. But they moved with him, doting, following. "I'm sorry. We're just taking inventory of how many of us are left, I- how much do you remember?"

Already Jack was sinking lower, looking away, deciding to check elsewhere. It was probably best not to get caught up in whatever happened.

"Do you remember the man? The human?"

His attention was snagged and he looked up at the creature, suddenly interested in whatever they were saying. There couldn't be many still in the studio of flesh and blood. The man's pokerface as he pulled the lever to his face... It made him shudder.

"You recall him, yes?"

He nodded.

They looked away. "...don't worry. He... He left. He fought with the masked man. Do you remember him? The Bendy mask?"

That added a new layer of confusion, but it was hopeful confusion. Masked man? As in Sammy? He nodded again, straightening slightly. Surveying the weird town around them, he saw no sign of him. Just other humanoid ink people quietly murmuring to other searchers and each other. Some had injuries.

"No, you... A Boris had an axe, and... We're still looking for them. They and the human got away. He was killed, and based on how he... Based on the state he was in..." They looked down. "...I don't think- oh, wait!"

But Jack had already thrown himself into the ink.

 _Liar._ Sammy was okay. Just they wait. He'd find him. Visceral horror flooded him as he bolted from the dark, horrible town. He'd find Sammy. He was just deep, deep in the studio. Hard but not impossible to locate. He refused to believe it. Sammy was strong. Not once had he ever seen him fall into the well. He'd pulled others from the brink, kept them away from deep ink. He couldn't have made it so far down and finally broken.

Even if he had, surely he'd return quickly.

Blindly, he pulled himself out of the ink. He was in a hall. Looking around once was enough to tell him nothing useful was there.

Again, into the ink. Again, out, in a different room, in a different hall, growing more anxious and worn by the minute.

Where was he?

Growing frantic, he popped in and out of the ink so fast it was disorienting him, searching for any sign of Sammy. Not for the first time he wished he could speak, could call out for him. He'd comb through the halls looking for him, or he'd wait until he came out of the well-

 _There_.

Poking its head out of a door was a Bendy mask. At catching its eye, he hurried closer, but the searcher retreated. Wait. Searcher?

For a second he thought it wasn't Sammy. He wasn't a searcher, not really, after all. But he had his mask, albeit more scuffed and scratched than it was before. Oddly, he had all five fingers.

Purposefully blocking the door, he tried to force his mouth to form anything resembling a word. Confirmation, that was all he wanted. Where did the searcher get his mask? Was he really Sammy? Did he know what was happening? His mouth refused to obey.

The searcher hissed at him, backing up until he was cornered against the office desk. He was shaking. Unable to get the words out, Jack only moved closer, hoping he would recognize him. It had to be Sammy. What in the world had happened to him?

Searcher-Sammy was a cornered rat, hissing and tensing up as Jack closed the distance between them. He reached out, and, ignoring how the other flinched, hugged him. _It's okay_ , he tried to say. Leaving the well could be scary. It would take him a moment to gather himself.

Sammy squirmed against him, for a moment trying to push him away, before he leaned into it. He still trembled, and he could feel his heart going a thousand miles an hour. Jack held him for another moment before letting him go. The mask tilted a little and he leaned in close, violating his personal space for several long seconds before pulling back.

That had to be a good sign. That meant he recognized him, even a little. Right?

He took Sammy by the hand. It didn't take lots of coaxing before he began to follow him, turning this way and that to take in the halls around them. Travel was easier in a proper body of ink, he'd have to be careful, considering his instability.

No doubt being back in the music department, safe from whatever had ended him, he'd fix his form and regain his speech, given time. He'd be okay. He had to be.


	15. The mortifying ordeal of having thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Norman regaining his sanity comes with a price.

The Projectionist jumped as Sammy's hand grazed his arm. He pulled it away from his tough, shoulders tensed, every fiber in him coiled at the mere contact. The ex-prophet stood beside him, not reacting to his recoil, and just stared at the horrid Boris abomination he'd torn open. 

He didn't move. His body refused to let him look away from the corpse. It wasn't decaying. Of course it wasn't- things without hearts needed to be thoroughly beaten into a pulp in order for the ink to take it. It left him staring at its dead, crossed out eyes.

Did it feel, he wondered? Had it been like him? Filled with an inexplicable rage towards the world that only caused pain, fueled to move only by the sheer refusal to die?

Was it once human?

The thought caused him sudden, grotesque revulsion. As if physically sickened, he lurched, stumbled, and Sammy took him by the arm, as if that would somehow keep him up if he did actually collapse. Emotions he hadn't felt in years clawed their way up to the surface of his mind, rearing their ugly heads that told no lies.

It had been _alive_. With a soul or not, the Boris had no doubt moved and felt. Just like him, it was a victim of Alice's sick whims. Was it truly mindless? Had he just murdered a breathing, conscious thing?

It wasn't the first time he'd taken a life, he realized with a mounting horror. Countless times, he'd dug his hand into the moving ink and flawed creatures and torn them to shreds. He'd held their beating hearts in his hands and, for some incomprehensible reason, guarded them like a dog. His hands were stained with ink, so much more than all the other creatures of the studio. More than, Alice, no doubt.

He was just stupidly, foolishly lucky, to have been pulled from his sorry state. Could the Boris have been saved, if given time?

_What had he done?_

Unable to find a suitable way to react, he just began to shake. First his hands, then a shudder all throughout his body; a tremble that rattled his very being. This wasn't what he'd wanted. Then he reached up with shaky hands to claw at his head, leaving smears of ink across the projector, for there was no way to relieve the feeling but to let it out physically.

They wanted to _free_ the victims of the studio, not kill them. He looked down at his hands, caked in thick ink from tearing the Boris open.

Again, Sammy nudged him. And when still the didn't react, he stepped in front of him, forcing him to step away from what he'd done. What he was saying, if he was speaking at all, was impossible to guess at, given the mask. That empty, grinning mask, with nothing behind the eyes.

He seemed to realize the issue and raised his hands. To _sign_ something, Norman knew that, but Sammy had moved too quickly, too sharply, and that damned mask reminded him too much of the _vile_ demon. Feeling guilt and remorse and unbridled _horror_ at himself hurt, and there was no easy way to block it out, to stop it from drowning him.

It was less painful to lash out, though, so that's exactly what he did. He shot out a hand, unsure of what exactly he intended to achieve, but Sammy darted out of the way. Again, the fast movement made him dizzy and uneasy, so he turned, sharply, looking for him, or for anything to take his thoughts away from the _guilt_ -

Sammy was backing away. He was defenseless. Tougher than normal searchers, that was for sure, but still it would be so easy to take him by the neck. How easy it would be, to dig his hand through his chest, to feel his heart hammering right against his hand, so fragile and easy to _steal_...

What was he doing? He found himself approaching Sammy, and just as quickly as he'd decided to go after him, he stopped. No. No, that wasn't what he wanted. Not at all. A look back at the Boris confirmed that. He wouldn't return to senseless slaughter. He _refused_.

He'd been defending them... That was it, right? It was okay to have cracked it open like an egg, then. It was trying to hurt them.

Just has he'd tried to hurt all he saw.

It was unfair. He'd been so _unfair_ and hypocritical to that Boris. As he turned back to Sammy, he saw the man flinch, only confirming his thoughts.

He was a monster.


	16. Amalgam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They weren't destroyed in the process. They were still there, deep within her. All of them.

_This wasn't supposed to happen._

She was supposed to win. To become perfect. _Henry,_ that damned traitor, had become a wrench in her plans. He stopped at nothing to spite her. Even if it killed the thing once his Boris, he frustrated her time and time again.

And that anger, that frustration, had gone to her head. There she was, laying on the floor, alone and dying in a puddle of her own ink.

_"Help me-"_

_"It's too loud-"_

_"Not right."_

The lull from her mind grew, like a chipping dam. _Shut up_ , she thought, _shut up and get away from me!_ She refused to die. She couldn't! She was Alice Angel, and angels didn't just... die.

Ink bubbled up her throat, drowning her voice and amplifying the hundreds of others that tugged and bit at her mind. Her arm grappled for purchase, but she couldn't feel it move, and could only watch as the smeared limb clawed at the tile.

_"Not mine-"_

_"It's wrong."_

_"Get away!"_

The hissing and chittering returned, and her hand tensed up and spasmed. It felt as if it were trying to tear itself from her body.

_"Let- me out-"_

_"QUIET!"_

_"Get away from-"_

_"-us-"_

Gritting her teeth, she squirmed to regain control of her hand. It worked, to an extant, and she pushed herself up. Her hands were black. Imperfect, smudged black.

The well shrieked. "Get-" her voice echoed into itself as she snarled- "away from me!" The Demon wouldn't take her. She refused to die! _Not like this!_

She pulled herself to her knees, which were melting, and god, she felt it. Her whole body felt on fire as her heart struggled not to fall into the puddles. It thrummed like the pipes in the walls did. It screamed just as the well did.

A hand burst from the ink, gloved and dripping. The screaming in her mind grew ever-louder.

_"LET ME OUT!"_

Cartoons didn't just pop out of the ink. Not did so many at once. She felt it, dear heavens, she felt it _all_. She felt her body stretching and mangling itself as if the well was trying to force itself out of her tired form. Arms and half-formed torsos and other incoherent parts dragged and pushed.

Her own thoughts began to get muffled by the screams. They weren't the well's, she realized with mounting horror. They were her own. Dozens upon hundreds of hearts, of souls she'd used.

 _They were still there._ Rolling, coiling within her. A hundred hearts beat in a constant churning rhythm, a hundred minds strained for release, and they had no thought for others or their host. Incoherent, malformed minds that were once lord knew what screamed and tore themselves out of her, until she herself fell, losing shape.

The well, the real well, refused to take her. Instead, she fell into the roiling mass of her own making. Souls clawed over themselves, stomping down the weakest, reaching high to gain a semblance of a correct form.

She felt it. Not just physically— she was being so trampled she could no longer feel the rip and snap of whatever was happening to get body— but emotionally. The anguish of those she'd used bled into her conscience. The raw, animalistic urge to fight for a body, a thing to see and control. Hatred. Loathing.

It suffocated her. Her own fear and despair meant nothing compared to what the rest of the buzzing hive felt. Scared, thrilled euphoria at _freedom_ drummed up through her.

Everything escaped. Everything had a chance to reform but they weren't let go, no. They were all stuck. Sewn together in some abomination of lives. She could see it, in a warped way. They were unable to free themselves and arms and legs and almost entire creatures realized that at the same time.

The anguished wail that escaped them made the walls shake. They tried to rip themselves apart. Claws met teeth met shapeless whips that snapped and ripped. But nothing gave, no matter how far they stretched out. They were still them, still one, still a hivemind. Nothing could pull itself away from the rest.

And so, in a blind rage, they moved. The room had grown cramped for their winding, twisting web of black. The cacophony of voices became deafening as dormant souls rose up. Some were mad. Others distressed. Others still were quiet and huddled it on themselves. Alice herself was thrown into the whirlwind, nearly getting torn apart, but she hung on, albeit with a tainted psyche.

" _Henry..._ " A thousand voices hissed at once as she surfaced. Henry did this to her. It was all his fault she'd devolved into such an abomination. She'd kill him for what he'd done. Drag him into her nightmarish form and tear him apart.

A singular goal set itself in their minds. Something to tear them away from going insane. Revenge. The souls individually probably didn't know why their anger flooded, but it did, and they gorged themselves on it.

The amalgam surged down, into the ink, into the walls. It spread like a sprawling fungus, searching, crawling after the cursed man.

They'd find him. And when they did, not even the Demon could save him.


End file.
